The stomach flu or something else akin to death

I don’t like to brag (excessively), but I don’t throw up. This is a well-known and documented fact that generally makes my friends roll their eyes whenever I point it out. Much like that episode of Seinfeld, I can actually count the number of times I’ve thrown up since I was 14 on one hand. I made it my entire pregnancy without once puking. Heck, I made it 8 years without throwing up, and those years included 99% of my high school and college career. Despite drinking enough to pass out on more than several dozen ocassions, I’ve only ever vomitted after drinking once, and that was way after my college days. And it hardly counts as it was really more of spitting up some extra bile than it was throwing up.*

This weekend, however, broke a six year stretch.

On Thursday morning I woke up to the screams of my son in the next room. I knew something wasn’t quite right because usually he wakes up grunting, babbling or crying, but never outright wailing. I stumbled out of bed and headed to his room. I found the poor little guy standing in a what appeared to be a sea of puke. This was not the nice little spit up I’d learned to be surprised by every now and then. This was awful and covering everything. Since my son had had the baby equivalent of beefaroni the night before, it was not only smelly, but also bright orange.

I yelled for my husband and we spent the next 20 minutes cleaning the baby, his bed and everything he’d touched, including his poor little stuffed penguin Vernon, who was now also orange. I called my pediatrician the moment the clock hit 7:30 (her early calling hours) and was told that since I was bringing him in for a check-up anyway, he could wait until the afternoon to be seen. He didn’t have a fever and was perfectly happy, so she wasn’t too worried. I was already going to take off work early to get him to his appointment, so I just went ahead and called in to keep an eye on him. We spent a perfectly lovely day together and aside from him eating less than usual, I thought he was over it.

He woke up the next morning once again soiled by vomit. It wasn’t as extensive this time, but since he’d eaten chicken and country vegetables, it was decidedly chunkier. Ew! Each day he becomes more advanced and his excretions more vile. I took him to the sitter’s though because he still had no fever and was perfectly fine. Well, aside from some nasty runnyness from the other end. Delightful, I know. Luckily the sitter had to deal with most of it.

Dealing with a sick baby, while not pleasant, isn’t that hard. Especially one as cheerful as my son. On Friday as I drove my son home I was looking forward to getting him to bed early so that my husband and I could enjoy a well deserved night out. I had a sitter arranged so that we could attend a holiday gathering at my boss’s house. I know that might not sound like a great Friday night, but I actually like my co-workers and my boss is very generous with the booze and great food at his holiday party. Plus, in honor of a friend’s birthday we were all going to hit the bar after the party and continue to get into the yuletide spirit.

I called my husband to see if he could stop by the pharmacy on his way home and pick up a prescription for my son. To my horror, I heard a weak voice on the other end say, “hello.” I asked him where he was, “in bed. I’ve been throwing up all day.” So much for our great night out. I cancelled the sitter, but figured since my son would be in bed, I could still go and enjoy the night out. Sure, getting my son to bed all by myself would be a bit more difficult than I like, and it would be the third time this week, but who cared? I was going out.

Yup, that was my plan.

That is, of course, until my stomach started rumbling. I made it through play time. I made it through feeding time for my son. I even made it through his bath, but as I was fixing him his bottle, my insides betrayed me. Yes, that’s right, I lost the six year battle. Luckily I lost it right before I made my son’s bottle. I cried out for my husband who couldn’t hear me because he was in the bedroom. I called out again in between heaving. Finally, when I thought I was done and over the cries of my son who desperately wanted his bottle, I called out again. My husband got up, took the bottle and tried to feed my son. Unfortunately he accidently bumped the baby’s head on the rocking chair which sent my already agitated little guy into further hysterics. I marched into the room, grabbed the bottle and kicked my husband out.

I felt a little better. Not well enough for any sort of dinner, but ok enough to try to curl up on the couch and try to watch a movie. I made it through the movie. I thought I was fine. I even decided to brush my teeth in an effortt to kill the taste in my mouth. Big mistake. The second the toothpaste hit it was all over. Right back to the toilet. That time was the worst!

Luckily, that was the end of my puking. My poor husband did not fair so well. He was up at least four times during the night. He spent most of Saturday on his knees as well. I was merely weak, skaky and filled with random chills. I felt horrible. I was too weak even to change my son on his changing table. I had to set him on the floor to put his clothes on him for fear I’d fall down while standing.

The day passed mostly with me laying on the floor and watching my son play or with me in the chair, propped up and watching him play. Thankfully he’s a little trooper (and only 9 months old), so he didn’t really seem to care. My husband only left the couch to sprint to the bathroom. On Saturday I managed to choke down a dozen saltines, a cup of broth, a bowl of soup and one small cup of pudding. It wasn’t much, but it tasted like victory to me. My husband was on a broth and applesauce diet. My son, was almost completely back to normal. He even slept in until 7:30 Sunday morning.

Sunday was much better for all of us. My husband kept the little he could bring himself to eat down, but still felt bad enough to spend most of the day on the couch while I went grocery shopping and played with the baby. He gave it his best effort, but he still wound up exhausted and napping at 3pm. Poor guy. He’s not blessed with the iron stomach I have.

I’m hoping tomorrow will find us all 100% vomit free.

*I do have a dear friend who revels in the fact that he is responsible for this incident, mostly I think because of my bragging. Or the fact that he got me to drink more than should ever be humanly possible.

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Filed under bad days, food, married life, motherhood, my son, ramblings, what makes me me

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