I pride myself on my apparent inability to get sick — flu, strep, stomach virus, all those common ailments that debilitate most of you mortals several times a year just pass me by. This viral untouchability could change now that there is a germy child in my life, but I always presumed that I have this super-immunity because I daily rode public transportation yet maintained a clean bill of health throughout my 20s and early 30s aside from 1 day of extreme fatigue, various crampy incidents that I will spare you, and a semi-yearly head cold that affects nothing but my sinuses. I thank genetics, because it sure ain’t clean living.
So this morning, I woke up feeling pleasantly revived from my weekend diversions. I went to the gym and labored moderately on the stepmill while watching MSNBC. I returned home, bantered with Mr. P over a light breakfast of toast, and drank some raspberry leaf tea to try and mitigate my crampy condition that I will, again, spare you (here’s a good time to mention that I am definitely not preggers.) Mr. P hurried out the door to work and A. woke up, and my son and I cuddled and tousled on my bed before the lure of his matchbox cars brought him into the living room. And that’s when my nausea started.
I can’t even remember the last time that I threw up when it was not alcohol-induced (that would be about ten years ago, not-coincidentally around the time I forever stopped drinking hard liquor). My mind immediately focused on the scallops that we ate for dinner last night, so I Skyped Mr. P, who said he felt fine. (And that also used to be another braggable feat — my iron stomach, which happily devours copious amounts of raw oysters and sushi, and held strong over a 2-year long Taco Bell addiction). Before I knew what was happening, I was rushing into the bathroom with my hand clamped over my mouth. A. ran after me, and became extremely upset when I managed to shut the door in his face before dropping to my knees and retching once into the toilet. He began crying in earnest as I huffed and puffed and sweated. He was still crying as I brushed my teeth, opened the bathroom door, and took him in my arms.
After the tears subsided, he began asking to go outside. The morning rain had tapered off and normally I would be pulling on his sneakers and getting ready to go to the playground, but my nausea persisted so I asked him if he’d like to watch a movie. Would he! I felt guilty turning to the electronic babysitter, but it was absolutely necessary. I went to my bed and curled up in a little ball, exhuasted and achy. Soon A. got bored of the movie and came to join me.
“Mommy and A. tenny!” he said, excitedly crawling onto the bed. (Tenny means sleep). He didn’t really want to sleep, of course. He wanted to cuddle and tousle some more. When he started to tickle my sides, I had to take his hand and say nicely but firmly, “A., stop. Mommy sick.”
“Mommy sick-ee?” he repeated. He doesn’t know this word, although he knows hurt, so I said “Hurt” and pointed to my stomach and head and repeated “Sick” before placing my head on the pillow.
“Mommy and A. sick-ee!” he sang out happily, cuddling up against me, touching my hair, slapping a sticker on my sleeve, poking my feet. “Mommy and A. sick-ee! Mommy and A. sick-ee! Mommy and A. sick-ee”
My child nearby, I allowed my consciousness to slip a little bit, although sleep is difficult when there’s a two-year old boy pushing matchbox cars along the length of your legs. The nausea began to intensify, intensify until it felt inevitable, and part of me wanted to purge the poison out but the other part of me dreaded that vile gushing in my mouth, and I stumbled into the bathroom and hunched over the toilet and vomited one, two, three times.
When I stopped, I looked up to find A. standing in the doorway, staring at me with curiosity and slight disgust. I took a cleansing spit into the toilet and slurred with a husky voice, “Mommy sick-ee.”
A. gave me a wary look. “A. no sick-ee,” he said, as if I was trying to make him do something unpleasant, like regurgitate the contents of his stomach. He shook his head firmly. “A. sick-ee, no. No.”
