It’s been a rip-roaring week here in the Lewis household. Seabass was nursing what we *believe* to be an ear infection, and I stared into the toilet bowl off and on for five days battling Montezuma’s Revenge. It was a tummy bug that came from Seabass’ daycare.
Thankfully, my mom was here for the first bit. But when she left, all hell broke loose. Seabass awoke from his naps screaming like he’d been personally visited by Satan, and often had a spiky fever to go with it. I went to bed one night feeling nauseous and woke up burping that all-too-telling pre-barf burp. The vomit didn’t come for a while – in fact, the whole illness was pretty uneventful. Like, if on a scale of one to five, five is puking your brains out and one is just feeling a little icky, I was a solid three.
That is, until I started puking my brains out.
I defy anyone to identify a feeling worse than nausea. Okay, amputation or childbirth is up there, but for all-around unpleasantness, nausea has to be the worst. Today is the first day in an embarrassingly long while that I haven’t laid drooling in my pajamas intermittently on the couch and on the bathroom floor, holding back the honk.
There was a time in my childhood that my family went sailing in Florida, and I couldn’t handle the motion sickness, so I curled up on the stern of the boat and tried to fall asleep. My dad labeled me “The Drooling Eggroll,” and that’s exactly how I felt this past week. Of course I’m not completely over this bug, so the mere mention of any food other than unsalted crackers makes me slightly uncomfortable. Egg rolls=shudder.
Here is the blessing in all of this madness: I have discovered how much some people love me.
- My husband. OMG. He is a rock star of the highest pedigree for what he took on this week. When I couldn’t so much as cut an apple for Seabass – let alone comfort him in the midst of a harrowing earache – Jake was there to take him on walks, feed him, play with him, and nurture him in all the ways I usually do. In fact, I’m pretty sure this was the best bonding weekend for those two ever.
- My neighbors. On Wednesday afternoon, Jake couldn’t come home from work and I was barely able to turn on a video for Seabass to watch without losing my lunch. In a moment of clarity, I phoned our neighbors down the street – whom I don’t know all that well – and pleaded with them to watch Seabass for the afternoon. They graciously handled all things Seabass for the next three hours so I could get some rest.
- My friends. I had scheduled to have dinner with one of my best friends from out of town Saturday night, and although my stomach was screaming “NO! NO! GOD NO!” as we left the house, I wasn’t about to let a little queasiness interrupt something I’d had on my calendar for months. Jenny was so understanding.
“Dude. Are you pregnant?”
“I couldn’t be pregnant. The timing just doesn’t line up.”
“Uh-huh.” [Looking at me askance as I gag down a bit of dry toast.] “But you don’t know for sure, now do you?”
“No. I suppose weirder things have happened. Do you think I should pee on a stick?” [Pee on a stick=take a pregancy test.]
“I don’t think you need to. You’re pregnant, dude.”
Well, as it turns out, I’m not pregnant. But I’m thankful that Jenny went to CVS with me and stood outside the cafe restroom while I prayed against any surprises. If I have anything to say about it, I won’t be having a second child anytime soon, or maybe ever. That’s not to say we don’t completely adore Seabass and love what he adds to our lives. That’s also not to say that we wouldn’t fall head over heels for another child if I’d in fact been pregnant. But this experience forced an interesting conversation between me and Jake that showed how unready I really am.
“You know,” he said, obviously choosing his words carefully, “If you are pregnant, it’s okay to be excited.”
“Easy for you to say,” I retorted. “I’m still very much on antidepressants and have only just now – at seventeen months – begun to get a grip on my life. I would be terrified.”
So, in this instance, thank heavens it was just a stomach bug.