Way back in 2000, just a few weeks after the husband became the boyfriend, I came down with a really disgusting stomach virus. It was a total disaster because as poorly as I handle vomitous situations now, I was way worse back then. I wouldn’t calm down about what was happening and kept trying to find what I considered, in my no doubt delirious brain, the most appropriate receptacle for my stomach contents. Because I was sick and weak, I never made it to any of the arbitrary destinations I had in mind, and ended up throwing up all over the goddamn place. It was pathetic. I’m pretty sure that I begged to be taken to the hospital mid-heave on the dining room floor.
My mom had to come and help mitigate the situation, but the husband stayed right by my side the whole time as I ran from room to room, ruining carpets, and slept on the couch with me while I watched The Outsiders and clutched a bucket.
Ten years later, almost to the day probably, in some weird, messed up cycle, I came down with another bug. It wasn’t quite as intense as the original version and I’m slightly less of a baby about the whole thing. But…ugh.
I was fine yesterday, but in the car on the way home, my stomach felt a little uneasy and I suddenly became very sensitive to smells. “I smell burnt plastic,” I snarled, but no one else did.
When we got home, I headed to the kitchen to make dinner, but spun around and told the husband and the baby that they should dip into their soup reserves because I wasn’t feeling good and didn’t want to make anything. Then I headed upstairs because I needed to go to the bathroom.
I sat there, slightly concerned, but figuring/hoping that going to the bathroom would take that away. But then I started sweating out of nowhere and thought, “That…generally doesn’t happen.” And, of course, the baby was talking to me about…something through the door until I had to tell him to please stop because I was physically unable to talk anymore.
I stood up, flushed, and tried to evaluate the situation. “Yeah, I think maybe it’s going to happen. It’s okay. You can do this. Try not to think about what you ate for lunch today and how that will look in reverse. You don’t know how long you have at this point. Best to get ready. Take off your sweater. Secure your hair. It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. It’ll be–HHUUUUUUGHGHHGHHUUUAAAAAAAAHGHGHGGHHHH.”
The baby had still been talking until he heard the unmistakable noises of hurling. As soon as there was a break in the (very graphic…believe me I am sparing you SO MUCH detail) action, he sweetly called out, “Mum? Are you okay?”
“Bleh. Cough. No.”
Once everything had calmed down and I had cleaned up the bathroom, I shuffled into my room and changed into pajamas.
And so it continued for the next few hours, though thankfully not as dramatic as the initial episode. The husband and baby kept their distance, but brought me Saltines and ginger ale and the baby made me the sweetest get well card which he ended with, “P.S. Don’t throw up on this leter.”
It was much like this, but without the drinking and the shame: