Well, it's been over three months since last I vomited, so I guess I was due. Picture the scene, if you will: middle of the night - peace and quiet rules the MacFarland house. Mister Mac and I, curled together in the middle of the king-size, the dog snuggling my rump and the cat draped above Mister Mac's head, over his pillow. Not a sound to be heard save the gentle susurrus of the ceiling fan and the occasional snork, issuing forth from my husband's fair nostrils. Suddenly, I awake, glancing at the clock (4:26), gripped by a band of pain stretching from my mons venus all the way up to the inside of my mouth. I struggle, against both the pain and the covers, which - pinned under limbs both human and animal, tie me to the mattress. Finally, after viciously nudging my sleeping dog in the ribs, I am able to sit erect, and the pain morphs into two distinct balls - one rushing towards the open air around my lips, one, like the Titanic, sinking swiftly towards the, erm, bottom.
Well, you can guess at the rest: poop and vomit, poop and vomit, poop and vomit, all night long. I had to holler at the top of my lungs to wake the hubby, begging Mister MacFarland, in my trying-not-to-spew voice, to run bring me a receptacle of some sort, so that I could, in fact, relieve both the symptoms at once. I think you take my meaning.
Alas, Mac was too late; I puked the Puke of the Ages, all over myself and the bathroom floor. The tee-shirt I was wearing? Straight into the garbage, along with the panties and socks that got in the way of the deluge. Five in the morning saw me swaying under a hot shower, ten after saw me on my knees with a bucket and some bleach, wiping away the chunky evidence of my gastrointestinal upset.
Yuck. I still feel like shit. Weak, you know? Low fever, and I'm scared to eat solid food quite yet, because while the vomiting has subsided, the Ring of Fire is with me even now. I feel like Uncle Robert, God bless 'im, a day or so after he's eaten a pizza.
TMI?
Blogging will not be light due to my illness; I intend to limp my way through mommying my children until dinner-time, at which point I will lock myself in my room, play video games, read books, and blog. After all, if an all-night puke-and-poop session isn't enough to earn some "me" time, I don't know what is.
Until then.
Posted by Queenie at March 18, 2005 02:23 PMSounds like quite the hoe-down!
You should do that more often, if that's all it takes to get a little time to yourself.
Awww man! That had to SUCK.
And sorry, Dave, but I'd just demand some "me" time rather than have to go through THAT. Uck.
Hope you feel better soon. Sips of ginger ale. And chippen noogle soop.
Posted by: Margi at March 18, 2005 05:11 PMFiring both torpedo tubes. Covering your six and twelve. That sucks. The chirrens used to give me about two or three of those a year. Usually hit on a business trip.
Posted by: Velociman at March 18, 2005 06:29 PM