So I woke up last night at 3:45am completely nauseous. Not the kind of nauseous where you just know you’re going to vomit. This is the kind of nauseous that lingers, and you just wish you would vomit.
I lay there with my head hanging off the mattress, moaning. I’m not quite sure why I hang my head off the mattress. It’s not like that’s going to get me to the bathroom any quicker should any supper come forth.
But the moaning, that’s for my husband’s benefit. So he’ll know I’m sick.
Turns out the energy I exhibited moaning was for nothing because Wayne had fallen asleep on the couch, and wasn’t even within moaning vicinity.
Of course, as I lay there, I always assume the worst case scenario. I’ve always been a hypochondriac at heart, waltzing into my doctor’s office whenever I suspect grave illness, scroll in hand on which are listed my symptoms, possible causes, plausible outcomes, and surefire remedies.
Thankfully my doctor is old, has pretty much seen all kinds come through his office, so crazy lady with a scroll in hand is the least of his worries.
Last night, in a span of 30 seconds, I had managed to convince myself that one of three things could be happening:
1. food poisoning from the calamari I had at lunch
2. overdose due to restless leg syndrome medication
Within the next 30 seconds, I had rationalized that the food poisoning would have manifested itself sooner, and I probably would be vomiting and expelling bodily contents via other methods, not simply laying here feeling nauseous.
The RLS medication, although I’m sure does have a toxic level, I highly doubt that taking an extra 1/4 tablet is going to do the job.
And pregnancy… well, no. With a snip snip here and a tie tie there, ain’t no way procreation is ever occurring in this body again.
By morning, I felt better.
Yes, that is disappointment you sense in my words. Because as much as being sick sucks, being sick when you’re a mother during the weekend, when your husband is home to look after the kids, well, this is a luxury. It’s kind of like a mini holiday. Sure, you may be running to the toilet every few minutes, shaking from chills, delirious from fever, but you’re by yourself in your bed. All day. And nobody wants to come near you for fear of catching what you have.
Mind you, this scenario has occurred for me once in the last 6 years. In March, I had the stomach flu. Turns out, everyone else in the family, except for Wayne, had it too. This was kind of a double bonus. So while I was hauled up in my bedroom, Wayne was the one left to run from one child to the other with bucket in hand.
And let me just give Wayne props for this, because the guy cannot handle the site, sound, or smell of bodily fluids. Me, I can be scrubbing diarrhea stains from underwear with one hand while eating a sandwich in the other. Wayne, well, poor guy, could barely handle dirty diapers and baby spit up. He’d try his darnedest to pitch in when the kids were little, but it was accomplished with one hand covering his mouth while vile retching sounds escaped his throat.
So the whole stomach flu fiasco in March, although quasi-enjoyable for me, kept Wayne running from one puke puddle to the next, gagging himself as he attempted to clean one kid’s projectile vomit while another was calling for a pail from another bathroom.
But, I am a mother. And even though, I will admit I find Wayne’s queasiness vis-a-vis the smells, sights, and sounds of bodily expulsions entertaining, because come on, picture it! It’s funny! Within 3 hours, I was back on my feet, taking over vomit duty.
I would just like to point out though, that Wayne caught the same stomach flu within hours of my recovery. And his lasted 2 days. I’m just sayin’…