Practical joke

I so rarely get sick that, when I do, I look at my body like it’s some kind of trickster.

“Is this your idea of a joke?” I asked my body in the middle of the night.

I occasionally get carsick and even get air motion sickness on planes, but my nausea never (if you will pardon the expression) rises to the level of actual vomiting. So my reaction at 2:30 in the morning was to assume this was a practical joke.

No, my body insisted. This is the real deal.

And it was. I brushed my teeth. I used mouthwash for good measure. I went back to bed a little shaky and was glad that was over. I had almost fallen back to sleep when I discovered my celebration had been hasty.

“No way. I never throw up twice. You’re just wrong.”

Nope, definitely not wrong. This time, I felt really wobbly. I lay on the bathroom floor afterward for a minute or two.

“At least there is nothing left to throw up!” I celebrated, again prematurely. I had just enough time to begin a dream when I woke a third time.

“Three times is the limit,” I informed whatever gastrointestinal scorekeeper in the sky might be listening. “No one throws up more than three times.”

I went back to bed, satisfied that this episode was finally behind me.

I don’t even remember the fourth trip. Or the fifth. Belief in my underlying good health was beginning to fail and, worse yet, my faith in numerology was eroding. Five times? Six? Now I lay for long periods on the bathroom tile, wondering if it would be easier to just drag a pillow and blanket into the tiny bathroom.

At this point, my cat, Felix, was alerted to the fact that something out of the ordinary was occurring and joined me in the bathroom. He surveyed my posture on the floor somewhat disapprovingly. “Mama, this lying on the floor is not a good look,” he informed me as he sniffed my eyes and mouth. I agreed.

I lost count of my journeys to the bathroom, even as they seemed increasingly pointless, as there was virtually nothing left within me to expel. Instead, I watched as the clock turned from 3:00 to 4:00 and then to 6:00. At a few minutes before 7:00, I made my final trip to the bathroom – and I did not throw up.

That was a happy thing. Not throwing up was the happiest thing that had happened in four-and-a-half hours, and I was absurdly pleased that this extended practical joke had finally run its course. I went back to bed just as my husband, Peter, was getting up, and I stayed there for much of the day. Peter consulted Dr. Google and thought I probably had the norovirus, which sounded like a strong contender.

By midmorning, I was able to drink some water, and I considered this a noteworthy accomplishment. By the end of the day, I tackled a banana. It did not taste great. But I am better now, and I feel as I always do on the rare occasions when my body does not behave the way I expect.

I am ridiculously grateful. I am so grateful this is an anomaly. I remember all my friends and family who live with chronic conditions every day, and I realize what a big idiot I am to ever complain about my minor inconveniences.

And I also realize that, in times of real trouble, my cat would be useless.

Till next time,

Carrie