Nearly fifteen years I had been vomit free. Not since that College party in New Orleans had I spewed.
On Monday my daughter had the merest touch of the stomach flu. Her chubby and cheerful 13 month old self needed her diaper changed rather frequently, and wasn’t too hungry. Tuesday she was better, but my wife had it. She felt nauseaus had the runs and went to bed early.
I felt fine Wednesday. Until noon. It came on slowly and inexorably, like the rising tide. I had a touch of a headache, and I felt slightly hot and uncomfortable.
The heater was on full blast when I drove home, but still I was chilled.
I got home, put on sweats, a bathrobe, pulled the covers up and napped on the couch.
I woke up to my daughter squeezing my nose, and laughing. As Michael Jackson says, “I felt badddddd, real bad, shammon!”
My bowels were hot and uncomfortable, my stomache ached, but I was dying of thirst. Every breath in made my teeth cold, and every breath out felt like I was exhaling steam. I had enough of a fever that everything felt surreal and slightly filtered to my perceptions. The air tasted like metal.
“Uhhh, g’way honey,” I mumbled to my daughter.
“Do you feel better?” my wife asked upon hearing me stir.
“I feel terrible.”
“We both had it, it wasn’t so bad. Why are you being such a baby? Give your daughter some attention.”
“You didn’t have it like this.” I spoke carefully through my nausea. “I think I’m going to die. I have it much worse than you guys did. It must get stronger as it goes around.”
“I’m sorry you feel bad. You want some OJ?”
I thought for a second. OJ sounded good. “Yah, pleez.”
She brought me a little sippy container. You know, the square ones with the straw you poke through the hole, and I slowly sipped at the clean refreshing liquid, mindful of the delicate nature of my digestive tract.
It helped, and life started to look better for a time. I finished the OJ which flowed into me like the water of life, and took an active interest in Wheel of Fortune.
It was to be a short reprieve.
The OJ betrayed me.
The sweet, pure and amber life giving fuid quickly became hot and sour in my stomach. I began to feel hot. My mouth started to water. My bowels notified me they were going to code yellow.
“It’ll pass,” I thought. “Think happy thoughts. Bear down.”
I felt really hot. My bowels went to code red as my mouth filled with saliva.
Suddenly I lept into action! Moving with a speed and agility which belied my… …well to tell the truth it was pretty much what you’d expect from a guy my size who was violently nauseas and semidelirious, I staggered off the couch removing articles of clothing, bounced into a wall, ripped off my sweats, and staggered to the bathroom.
“OH. MY. Gosh! What are you doing?” called my wife after me. I paid her no heed as I ripped off the last of my clothing, sat down on the throne, and let the truth come out (so to speak.)
It was explosive and loud enough to get my daughter’s attention in the next room, though I had no way of knowing this at the time.
As my nether regions attained temporary equilibrium, my eyes began to water, and I felt the gag reflex starting. Desperately I grabbed for the waste basket, got down on my hands and knees in front of the toilet, and felt the inevitable process begin.
“Uh kuh?” My daughter, investigating the noise, opened the bathroom door which I had left ajar, and beheld her naked, sweating father on his knees on the floor in front of a steaming toilet, praying to the wastepaper basket. I had one clear moment to behold her expression of shocked amusement as my body heaved into a protracted and involuntary thirty second convulsion.
"OOOOOWWWWWWAAAAAAEEEEEEKKKKKKKKCCCCCHHH!" I said to the wastebasket, as I filled it with the mixed remains of hot orange juice, a couple of pretzels, a Diet Coke, and a turkey sandwich with lettuce and mayo.
Unfinished though my wastebasket interview was, the toilet again required my immediate attention. I jumped backwards onto it, and once again almost cracked the porcelain with the force of my movement.
Hearing what sounded like a buffalo in mortal distress, my wife came to investigate.
“What are you doing? (pause) In front of your daughter!?! How could you?”
I looked at her with a combination of misery and hatred, lept onto the floor and grabbed the wastebasket again.
“OOOOWWWWAAAAEEEEKKKKCCCCCHHH!” I replied (apparently all my time in Great Debates had paid off, as she had no reply to this snappy comeback that not even DavidB could refute.)
They both stood there in shock as I moaned pathetically. Oh yes, more was coming.
“OOOWWWWAAEEKCH!!” I said. Then in further rebuttal; “ECHH, urr. HACK! HACK! ::cough:: ::cough:: Blaaaeecth!”
Used up and spent, I lay naked on the linoleum, not even wiped, and dripping from both ends as the two females I loved most in this world beheld what, in retrospect, was probably not my finest moment.
Then it happened.
“Pup. Pup!” My daughter said, this being her customary way of announcing that she was about to say something important.
I lifted my weary, haggard, and dripping face to regard my precious love.
She pointed her finger at me.
“heh, heh, heh.” she said, and tottered away.
“You clean that up, I’m not cleaning up after you. Why’d you do that in the garbage?”
Then, perhaps realizing how cruel she sounded, she looked at me tenderly for a moment. “Maybe you should sleep on the couch tonight. Goodnight, feel better.”
I must have lain on the linoleum for another half hour before moving. Though I was still terribly sick and weak, a joyous thought ran through my brain.
My wife and daughter were going to be with me a long… longggg… time. It would be 17 years before my daughter went to college. 17 years to plan and achieve my vengeance. Maybe another 30-40 years to get even with my wife.
I may be naked and sweaty on the linoleum now,
…but I would get up.
Remember, the linoleum awaits us all.
