jethrien

Let me tell you a story. This is a sad, sad story. A tragedy, in fact. About the death of stuffing. Also, how an entire family spent the better part of the weekend wanting to join the stuffing in death.

Thanksgiving morning, ARR threw up four times. It was kind of worrisome. But he was lively and happy, had normal diapers (if a little less than usual), and he stopped by the time Thanksgiving dinner rolled around in the late afternoon. We were concerned, but agreed to keep an eye on him.

Note: no babies were harmed in the making of this tragedy. ARR is happy for the rest of this story.

The next morning, I was feeling a little iffy, but figured it was from overdoing dinner the night before. We went to breakfast at a friend's house. I started feeling increasingly nauseated by the time it was time to go. I got home. I lay down on the couch. I got up, retrieved a bucket, lay down again. I then made very good friends with my bucket. My bucket would be my constant companion for the next six hours.

I seriously cannot remember having been so dreadfully, violently, continuously ill in my life. It's possible there was something in early childhood I've blanked out. But this was...dramatic. Full scale core dump. Plus alternating chills and sweats. As I became increasingly incoherent, they decided to take me to the urgent care clinic. I spent some time kneeling on the floor outside the door because I couldn't make it all the way inside. I'm pretty sure they bumped me and my bucket up the triage list with increasing rapidity, given that I was basically alternating vomiting in their waiting room and passing out in their chair. I collapsed on the exam room table and could barely answer the doctor's questions—Chuckro and his mom had to mostly answer for me. The doctor decided it was a norovirus and sent me home with the anti-nausea meds they give chemo patients.

A couple hours later, Chuckro started.

Around the time Chuckro started whimpering about how cold he was from under his giant pile of comforters in a 70 degree room, his sister called to be picked up from her 10 year reunion, whose trash can she had just puked into.

One mercy—by this time, I was starting to come back around. Which was good, since Chuckro's dad fell around midnight.

The bulk seemed to last about twelve hours, with the middle six consisting of incoherently wanting to die. Then you just feel like you've been run over by a truck. So at least by the time Chuckro's mom also started vomiting, Chuckro and I were able to stagger around fetching ice chips and cleaning and running after a cheerful and chipper little man who wanted to Explore! All! The! Things!

So the mercy was that this happened when it was a long weekend, and we had five adults around. It rolled through us, so there were always at least two or three people vaguely capable of taking care of the baby and invalids.We changed Chuckro's sister's flight, so she was weak but ok by the time she had to get on a plane. No one was alone or alone with a baby while being sick. Could have been so much worse.

But oh god. So sick. Still feel completely exhausted and light-headed, probably because I'm still trying to make up the dehydration and blood sugar crash. We're all on restricted diets for a week. No one ate any of the leftovers from Thanksgiving. We're trying to freeze the pies and cranberry sauce. We might be able to handle the turkey, sans gravy. ARR happily helped with the rolls and sweet potatoes. But I think we're going to throw out half a tray of sausage stuffing that no one's allowed to eat.

So bow your heads and shed a tear for the death of the Thanksgiving leftovers.