On the whole, I'm pretty whole. My knees are bad, I don't exercise enough (read: at all), and I need glasses. Oh, and I have depression. But other than those things, I'm in pretty good shape. That means that when I get sick, it's a shock. I'm used to my body working correctly, so when it doesn't, I have a hard time. I'm not saying that others who have more chronic illnesses are better off, or that they handle their afflictions worse--I mean to say only that I hate being sick. Odds are good, most people agree with me…about themselves, certainly. They could, I guess, agree that they hate it when I'm sick, which is very compassionate of them. I thank them.
My wife has been dabbling with a cough and sore throat and other icky stuff since the end of October, sometimes better, sometimes not. My oldest, too, had a cough for a while that turned into an ear infection. He's over that now. But last night? Hoo, boy. Because it's the "holiday season," I had two Christmas parties yesterday: One for work and one for my writer group. I left school feeling only slightly unwell, but it passed as the day went on. I played video games with my boys before the group party, then we headed out to my fellow writer's house. The boys had a good time playing with the toys and other kids there, while we adults enjoyed talking and playing a group game. It was a pleasant evening--all the while, my wife parked herself in one spot and did her best not to move. Quite the trooper, she dealt with her nausea well. By the time we pulled into the house (by this point, after ten o'clock), she was feeling better and I was feeling worse. I had had plans to keep playing The Last Guardian (my current video game I'm playing for my upcoming Winterim), but by the time the boys were tucked in, with my middle child looking particularly worn out, I was ready to hit the hay, too. By two in the morning, I was kneeling before the porcelain throne, feeding it whatever was left in my stomach. The pain of passing so much bile, acid, and undigested food was worse than I remember (the last time I puked was this time of year back in 2009, I believe). I made the most revolting, braying sounds as I sicked into the bowl, and my nasal cavity became packed with the detritus of my stomach. Once it was over, I realized that the other end needed attention, and I spent a good ten--or more--minutes sitting on the toilet. Needless to say, I was not a happy camper. I cleaned myself up, brushed my teeth, and returned to bed. Less than an hour later, my seven year old arrived, said he felt sick, and took up space in our room in order to be closer to the bathroom. My wife made a nest of blankets and pillows so that he was somewhat comfortable on the floor, but before I could fall back asleep--the stench and tang of bile in the back of my throat making such a procedure difficult--I heard a rush of feet into the loo. As my son puked, it struck me that it sounded like two large sheets of water colliding, that his experience was to let it pass out of his mouth without much heaving or pain. At least, I hope that his was less painful than mine. I know I slept--I had a dream in which my good friend from school caught me smoking weed, which was kinda weird, since 1) I don't smoke anything, to say nothing of weed, 2) that he knew enough about weed to point out that I had to take care of the bag of pot because it was a lot, and 3) he doesn't own a trench coat, I'm pretty sure, but was wearing one anyway. Whatever sleep I got was insufficient and sporadic and kind of painful (I need a new pillow). Now that it's morning again, I'm at my computer, trying to get some words down for the day, and I simply feel gross. I don't think I'll puke again, but I have to admit that I would not object if I spent another eight years without a facial visit to the latrine. Or another eighty. I hate being sick. |
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July 2022
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