Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Back from the Land of the Lost, or, Sleeping In the Potty

It is with utter grace and humility that I wish all you monkeys out there a very merry Christmas, happy Hanukkah, festive (???) Kwanzaa, etc because frankly, we are ALL lucky that I'm here today.

It began, as these things tend to, on a weekend. Princess woke up needing the ever-in-demand barf bucket, and I went about my business. Sure, this round took her down a little longer and a little harder than normal, but the next day she was ready to go and eating pop tarts like it's her job.

Then 3 pm rolled around. I assumed I was experiencing stomach karma for drinking a non-bladder-approved Coke Zero.

By 4 pm I'd called in reinforcements. I begged The Man to come home because I might be getting sick. By 4:15 I'd hustled my way through a shoddily constructed meatloaf, holding my breath so the mere smell of raw meat didn't push me over the edge. By 4:30 I was DEFINITELY getting sick.

And by the time The Man had rolled in (mercifully early for him) I was holed up in my bedroom with the bucket and whatever virulent tropical disease I'd contracted.

I'd like to tell you the next hours were a blur, but frankly, they're all too vivid. Mainly because for the first time in my entire life, I threw up for 24 straight hours. I wasn't just worried about dehydration, I was actively hoping for it. I'd pinch my skin just like Dr. Oz taught me, and wait to see if it stayed in place.

Oh. Damn.
Vomit Interlude...
Oh. Damn.
Vomit Interlude...

Mainly because if I were dehydrated, I'd go to a nice room at a hospital where they'd stick me full of IV fluids, I'd stop being so crossing-the-Sahara-thirsty and maybe they could dose me up with something so I'd stop throwing up things that should NEVER come back OUT of your body.

Alas, I ended up having to ride it out. And ride I did. I spent all of Monday night curled in the fetal position on the floor of our master bath. I used one hoodie as a pillow and the other as a blanket. At some point, I lurched to consciousness because someone, somewhere needed the bucket.

I told The Man that we had a white bucket in the laundry room, and apparently Casanova needed it. He brought back a Tupperware container. Whatever.

Then yesterday, I basically slept, threw up, cried for my mom and/or the children of St. Jude's (that ad, ohhh, that ad) and called The Man from upstairs to demand more Gatorade that I'd promptly throw up. The doctor's office was all "just keep drinking!" and I'm all "it's the RETENTION that's the issue here!" but they didn't think I was ready to hospitalize. So visions of IV fluids danced in my head.

Another fun note? I fixated on which mythical character couldn't drink water because every time he'd get close the water would dry up. I couldn't remember who it was. This seemed to be very important. I had a fever.

(Note: It's Tantalus. And, I'm willing to bet good money, the root of the word for tantalize.)


So I'm hanging in there, but barely. Apparently while I was recuperating, someone installed approximately 400 new stairs in my house. Standing is still dicey, so I'm taking it easy. And not for the first time do I wish the wingback had wheels...

The Man has handled most of the Christmas this year, which, despite some control issues on my part, is just fine. At least it's done. I don't *always* have to be the one to do it. I mean. I hear. In theory.

And hopefully by the time Christmas rolls around, we'll ALL be back on solid food. And as for me? I'm grateful for water, glorious water that I can finally drink. Normally I hate water, but oh, how I NEED it. I don't really think I needed an abject lesson in appreciating water, but whatever.

Wishing you all the best of whatever you're celebrating. And hopefully it's your health!

Comments, questions, anyone see the driver of that truck?