Recommended wine for today’s entry: A Hannibal Proprietary Blend from Bouchard Finlayson winery in South Africa. A mix of Sangiovese, Shiraz, Pinot Noir, Nebbiolo and Mourvedre. Rick and Becky said it has a black cherry, tobacco and spice taste. The tell-all, from Becky: “Drank a glass without food and before a Mrs. Fields’ white chocolate chip/nut cookie and still tasty.” There you have it.
Now that my daughter is well, I have decided to tell the story of When I Was Sick With Either The Flu Or Bubonic Plague. Those of you who are mothers will undoubtedly be able to relate to this experience.
First, I may point out that I am rarely — if ever — sick. That is not to say that I don’t fake sick to get out of doing something I don’t want to do. But one week last November, I was truly sick.
And my husband went to Disney World.
It was a Monday night and I was tired because I had spent all day baking delicious treats for my husband to drop at the Ronald McDonald House on his way to the airport. I do this every two weeks and I’m sure they look forward to it. My husband, who is mean, says that he sees them throwing it away in the dumpster out back when he leaves, but I don’t believe him. Cat hair or not, I think they appreciate it.
So when my back was sore that night, I thought it was because I had been on my feet all day. I grabbed a heating pad and a glass of crisp, cold chardonnay. But the wine didn’t taste good and I didn’t finish it.
That is when we knew I was VERY sick.
By Tuesday morning, I had thrown up like forty times. (It’s OK, that’s about the end of the gross stuff). So as my husband was humming, “It’s a Small World” and packing his suitcase, I was trying to concentrate on The Suite Life of Zack and Cody, but I couldn’t follow the plot. I knew things were going to be ugly.
My oldest daughter, who calls me on her way to and from every college class, kept calling every hour and a half. She was concerned that I wasn’t making sense. My husband called in between. But somehow I lived until three o’clock, when my then 15-year-old came in from school. I knew my husband had given her care instructions for dear old mom.
After about ten minutes, she came into my room, head averted so as to avoid contraction of the plague. “You don’t need anything, right?”
“Uh, could I have some water?”
“You mean now?”
After about 45 minutes, I called her on her cell phone. I heard her answer in the kitchen. “My water,” I panted, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth.
Finally she brought it. Held it out across the bed. “I can’t reach it,” I breathed. She stomped around the bed, put it on my table.
“Is there anything ELSE I can do for you?”
“No. But if you go out, will you bring me a popsicle?”
I don’t remember the rest of Tuesday. Wednesday, the dog clearly needed to go out, so I got up to walk to the door from the bedroom, but she’s afraid of that door, so I pinballed my way down the hall. I made it about halfway, then, THUD, I hit the ground.
After a couple minutes, I came to, and this time made it into the den. Bella had to have her Frisbee to go out, so I leaned over to look under the sofa and THUD. Out again. When I came to this time, I had the Frisbee and we were making progress. Up and to the door. Not enough. See, Bella can only poop if she has her orange Frisbee in her mouth AND ONLY if someone is watching. (She prefers it to be a dinner party guest, but in a pinch, I’ll do.) So I made it outside, praying I wouldn’t faint on the brick terrace. Good.
And I might note here, that when you’ve been throwing up for two days, watching your dog go to the bathroom is not at the top of your list of happy things.
I couldn’t stand the sound of the TV, so, except for talking on the phone, I passed the time on Wednesday and Thursday playing the Clock Game. You’ve done this. You watch the digital clock and close your eyes and try to reopen them after exactly one minute. If you want, you can do it with 2, 3, 4, … you get the idea. It’s super fun and a great entertainment option if you can’t roll over without fainting.
I think on Thursday my daughter may have brought me an orange popsicle. I think this because there was one melted in my throw-up trashcan (don’t act like you haven’t done that).
Anyway, by the time my husband came home on Friday, I’d lost about six pounds, wasted $225 in Broadway Series tickets, offered my youngest daughter $5 if she’d put ICE in the water, convinced everyone that I didn’t need to go to the doctor … and perfected the one-minute version of the clock game.
In the interest of full disclosure, my husband was at a conference in Orlando and not at Disney World. But in my fever-induced stupor, he was on Peter Pan’s Flight, screaming like a baby.
Oh, and we did throw away all the treats I’d labored over while I was apparently diseased — we didn’t take them to Ronald McDonald House!