Home, Sick II

Before my husband Rick left for work, I bought Sprite and saltines for the days ahead. The night had been busy with Jake throwing up, most of which my husband took care of. As for the day, that was my territory. So I set aside my own plans to blog and photograph and decided to nurse my child back to health.

Jake spent most of the morning wrapped in his Sponge Bob blanket, laying on the couch and telling me stories. He told me how the night before he had spent hours on the bathroom floor, his body folded in an attitude of prayer. “I kept on thinking that if I had one wish,” he said, “it wouldn’t be for a million dollars or anything.” Jake pulled his blanket up to his chin as he talked, then cocked his head to one side. “I’d ask, ‘Make this end.’” He sat up straight, karate chopping his right hand against his left to emphasize his words. “Make this end,” he repeated, then lay back down. If I were a genie, I would have gladly made it stop for him. As it were, I could only sit by his side and watch him talk, his face pale like moonlight, his voice small. I pulled up a chair and read him a story about a mouse named Lily and her purple plastic purse that played music when she opened it. When we finished that, we read about a rather bad weekend with Wendell, a mischievous mouse that created havoc in the life of his timid classmate until she finally turned the tables on him. Jake and I noshed on some saltines, which always seem to taste good at first, then disintegrate into tasteless crunchy things that you can’t stop eating for some reason, even though it feels like your insides are turning into school paste, the ingredients of which are surprisingly similar to saltines. Finally, when we had filled ourselves on crackers, we fell asleep.

Two days later, while drinking a mixture of freshly squeezed orange juice and Perrier, which should have been a refreshing snack, a tsunami of nausea hit. I poured most of my drink down the sink, muttered something like, “Oh, dang, now I’ve got it too,” and headed to bed.

From my room I could hear the steady beat of someone dribbling a basketball, the occasional thwack as it hit the garage door. From a neighbor’s back yard a dog barked its high, panicked inquiry of “Who’s there?”, a familiar soundtrack to our days and nights. From the front room someone typed messages on an old Royal typewriter with firm clackity clacks. The chimes on the deck sang a delicate tuneless song and birds twittered nervously from the tree outside my window. These sounds would have been comforting, had it not been for the open rebellion taking place in my gut. I could feel the two sides lining up for battle. In one corner the Let-It-Hurl team eyed the opposition, the Keep-It-Down-At-All-Costs wimps who cowered on the sidelines. I wondered who would win.

I wanted to read, but unfortunately most of my reading material involves food. I checked out Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love, the cover of which nauseated me to even look at, although I considered skipping the Eat part and heading straight for the Pray. But I was not in the mood for philosophy. As for my magazine supply, Gourmet and Martha Stewart, both feature way too much food for the flu afflicted. The very article titles made my stomach swirl and grind.

Thankfully, my husband took the kids out for dinner so I didn’t have to smell his cooking. Perhaps he learned his lesson from my first pregnancy. I was in the first trimester and discovering that morning sickness referred not to a specific time of day for feeling nauseous, but a perpetual physical state. My husband craved meat, so he cooked up some ground beef, which he burned. The stench permeated our tiny apartment and reduced me to a lumpy heap on the bed, too weak to call out, “Could you crack a window?” It’s just as well that he didn’t know I was in the bedroom dying. Giant mutant spiders lived outside those windows, and had he opened one, surely they would have moved in without ever asking, bitten me on the toe, and caused some horrible defect in our unborn son. But then again, these could have been the worries of a hysterical pregnant woman.

But now I was in a different house when the flu hit, definitely not pregnant, but just as sick. I rolled over, trying to figure out which side felt less like a turbulent oceanic voyage on a very small boat. Paul peeked in the room and told me they were going to pick up some food at one of my favorite burger joints. I briefly considered asking them to order me a cheeseburger and fries. At that moment my stomach gurgled loudly in protest. That’s when Paul beat a hasty retreat and I started Lamaze breathing, which wasn’t very handy during delivery but has proved quite useful for nausea. I inhaled through my nose and exhaled through the mouth ten times. Then I waited for my body to settle down. There was a day a couple years before when I breathed like this for hours to avoid throwing up. I never did barf. But, near the end of my malaise, it occurred to me that there was something in my stomach that had desperately wanted out, and I wouldn’t let it. Where did it go? I wondered. Did my body just take it back in, or was it still sloshing around somewhere inside of me? This thought made me run for the bathroom where I crumpled before the toilet. Pressing my head to the cool linoleum I remembered what my son told me two days before. “Make it stop,” I said over and over, calling on the genie to rescue me. My stomach writhed as I lay prostrate before the porcelain goddess. But soon it became apparent that there was no genie granting wishes that day. And as for the porcelain goddess, she is a false god, angry and unforgiving.

Hours later, the storm subsided. Or at least my storm. That night, two more kids succumbed, and then finally my husband got it, too.

It wasn’t all bad, though. It got me out of making dinner for nearly a week. When everyone finally stopped throwing up and could stand the thought of more exotic fare than saltines and soda, we voted on what to eat. “Cereal sounds good,” Rick said.  So we dined on Frosted Flakes and Raisin Bran. And to our bruised and tired bellies, it was better than a gourmet meal.  

Comments

[Dana]

I loved Jan's comment. It is true that for some reason our family dinner conversations somehow always get involved in talking about abnormal body functions. I really used to worry that you thought Rick's family was too gross for words, but I agree with Jan. We do need to discuss this blog at our next family affair. I loved it. I could actually feel your nausea and past nausea's of my own. Delightful reading Susan. You are now offically a member of the Hayward clan. Sorry - I know this is not something you aspired to, but you said it better than anyone in the family ever has!

[Jan]

This will make a great conversation at our next family dinner!

[SHELBY]

First off, I am so sorry the flu made the rounds at your house...and glad it's over for you. No fun!

That being said, I also have to comment (again) on how amazed I am at your writing. I am here, at work, reading your post and getting kinda annoyed each time a call comes in and drags me away from your blog. How many people can claim to be so talented, that they totally enthrall their readers on the subject of the flu? :)

[MaryB]

Flu, flu go away! Don't come back another day! I'm glad you're all finally over it (everyone had their turn, right?)
I'm glad you posted something new...I don't like to see my little sis. being sick! :(

[Nicole]

Sorry to hear you were all sick. Don't you hate it after your kids have had stomach flu waiting to get sick yourself. The anticipation of "am I going to get it?" is awful. I'm glad that you are over it.

[Laura]

Oh my something is going around. Please please make it stay away. I hope everyone is better!

[Shannon]

glad you're all feeling better. :)
Sophie had that same nasty bug last week and it was an awfully violent version of the stomach flu. Yuck.
somehow she is the only one that got it, so maybe it was food poisoning?

either way, I am so glad the rest of us escaped its wrath.