My Husband Undermines Me With Illness

The demon Stomach Flu is upon us, and like all demons, it shows up uninvited and takes its sweet time leaving. They are the drunken uncles of the paranormal world. 

(There's going to be some barf talk in this post, but I'll try to lessen the psychological damage by using different words for puke so you don't have to read too many of any one vomit euphemism.) 

I work out of our home, which is perfect because our home contains our kitchen and television. I had just left one to sit in front of the other, sucking down a healthy breakfast (an amuse-bouche of trail mix, a bowl of Cocoa Puffs, a V-8 chaser) while pondering my enormous to-do list, when I heard a faint call: "Sweetie?"

Eh? God, how many times do I have to tell the mailman that I don't want to sign for anything, that whatever he can't cram into our mailbox he can just set on fire? And what's with 'sweetie'? He knows I'll only answer to Bodacious Bim. Sweetie is inappropriate, only my hus--

Oh. Right. Tony took the day off. You'd think I would have noticed his motionless unconscious form in bed when I rose like a tardy Frankenstein, newly animated but running late. Alas. 

"In here!"

"Sweetie? Mutter mumble mumble sweetie mutter."

"Can't hear you!"

"MUTTER MUMBLE MUMBLE SWEETIE MUTTER."

Ugh. Huge pet peeve: when I tell whoever's yelling that I can't hear them, they don't come closer, they yell louder. Luckily I lead by firm yet compassionate example.

"I CAN'T HEAR YOU COME CLOSER OR GO FURTHER AND DON'T THINK I WON'T STRANGLE YOU IN YOUR SLEEP YOU'RE NOT THE FIRST TONY ALONGI YOU'RE A SOULLESS CLONE!"

Ha! That fixed him. Ah, here he came now with a sweet apology on his lips like a song.  "I'm sick!"

"What?" That was a terrible way to start any song.

"Sick, I'm sick and I called and called for you and you never came and I'm sick I think I'm going to throw up and you hate me."

"That's not true," I replied, chagrined. "I don't hate you all the time. You were fine when I ignored you as I left our bed because of our stupid alarm clock with a stupid snooze button I can't not hit again and again."

"I'm sick."

Then he looks at me like I'm a cure, or a doctor, or have Harry Potter's wand under my shirt. Flu-us begonus! No, that's terrible…

"What do you want me to do?"  

"I'm sick!" He's only one foot stomp away from a full-on waaah. Nope, he's not going to take it quite that far, he's turned, he's walking away and I have to scamper--okay, plod--after him. 

"Okay, well. You're already home, it's not like you have to call work. Just go back to bed."

I got a muttered murmur for that one as he climbed onto the couch in the library, gangly pale arms and legs flailing in slow motion (slailing?). "Okay?" I asked. "You're okay? You seem okay." A glare, more mutters. "Be right back." I left, assembled a PukeBox™(more on that later), brought it back along with a fizzy water, got a damp washcloth, fetched blankets, covered him up, took the high road by not smothering him, asked again if he needed anything, got a mutter through clenched teeth for my pains.

My laptop is calling my name, as is a second bowl of Cocoa Puffs. "Okay, well. I'm in the living room if you need anything." Please don't need anything. "Okay? Okay."

I darted back to my computer and was pondering #7 on my to-do list (#7: check w/accountant; are Cocoa Puffs tax deductible because I eat them while I work?) when I heard something that made my sugar-infused blood run cold: "Bllluurrrgggghhhh!"

No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no!

No.

I'm not a monster, but I am selfish, willful, immature, vain, and lazy. Those are enough handicaps without throwing a sick husband into the mix. And the sick husband knows this well. If anything, he was going to be more horrified than I at the morning we were doomed to have. I jogged back to the library in time to see him making use of the PukeBox™, so that was something. But his aim is never the problem, his volume is (barf-wise as well as noise-wise). When my husband throws up, it's terrifying. It's so loud. It sounds like he's throwing up from his diaphragm, like an opera singer would if they barfed onstage. Really deep and long and loud: "Bleeeaaarrrrgggggnnnnngggggggaaaaaaaggggg!" Gasp, groan. "Toldja bleeeaaarrrrgggggnnnnnngggggaaaaaggggg I was sick bleeeaaarrrrggggnnnnggggggaaaaaggggggg."

(Cut to our dogs, cowering in the living room. I didn't have to be a dog whisperer to know what they were thinking: "I don't know what the hell is in there, but it's eating the alpha male! And the alpha female is just standing there! We have to kill her and get away! Squirrel!")

"I believed you when you said you were sick," I whined. Tendrils of guilt were starting to sink into my soul like spiders spinning webs of guilt, then catching flies of guilt in their webs of guilt and wrapping them up in more spider silk of guilt. "I did!" (He hadn't contradicted me, but I wanted to establish my alibi as early as I could.) 

"Toldja," he managed between bleeaaarrrrggggnnnngggaaggs. He managed to look vindicated and nauseated at the same time; no doubt figuring it was fortuitous timing. Spite vomit is the worst vomit. (Okay, spite vomit and blood-flecked vomit.) And that's what this whole thing was, an exercise in spite flu or spite food poisoning. His puking was going to be very stressful for me, not that he gave that a single thought while spite-retching. 

First, it's inappropriate for him to be sick at all. There's only room for one whiner in this family, and it's not him and it's not my son and it's not my daughter. (Nor the dogs.) He is blatantly poaching with puke on my territory! It's like he didn't even consider that as he barfed! 

Big number two, I'm busy. The only week busier for a writer than the week before a new book comes out is the week the book comes out. Not to mention my usual dizzying array of work and household responsibilities: chauffeur service, cooking for eight (there are only four of us, but we're hungry all the time), sending registered mail to myself and then refusing to sign for it, stocking up on Halloween candy that will be devoured weeks before we buy a pumpkin, buying pumpkins, buying a carving kit, forgetting I bought pumpkins and buying more pumpkins…it's exhausting. All that stuff, it's on me. No one else will step up and buy unnecessary pumpkins we'll forget to carve until 4:00 p.m. on the 31st. It's like he didn't even consider that when he was shoutin' at the floor! 

Third, every drop of bile is a harbinger of my fate. He'll have thrown this off by dinnertime; I'll catch it and be flat on my back for a week at the worst possible time. And will I get waited on hand and pedicured foot? Will he fetch me cold drinks and offer washcloths and take on my domestic workload?  Yes! But it's still annoying to be sick. I hate not being able to enjoy Bon Appetit and Fine Cooking without getting nauseated; I'll be stuck with Crappie Magazine and Garden and Gun and Popular Ceramics for the duration.*

"Okay, done?" Not for the first time, PukeBox™saves the day. A weak groan was my answer. "Okay, I've got to switch this out. Can you do without it for a minute?" Another hollow groan. I am fluent in groan, so I knew I had a minute but not much longer. I picked up the PukeBox™and fled in the direction of the kitchen.

I do not run an organized household, particularly when our system of anarchy breaks down into a system of chaos. It's never a question of, "Quick, snatch up that relatively clean office garbage can and regurgitate into it!" It's more like, "What the hell did we throw away in this garbage can? It smells like mothballs on fire," or "Just because I bought the bucket doesn't mean I ever know where it is." So when anyone is sick, it can be a scramble to find a vessel crappy enough to glurt! into in time to prevent a horrible bile-tainted accident. "Not the silverware drawer, not the silverware drawer! No! Not the china hutch, either! How do you go from barfing into a drawer to barfing on our hutch? I will kill you to put myself out of my misery!"


Enter PukeBox™, a device invented out of pure self-defense, like Kevlar or fat-free ice cream. You take a small cardboard box (we always have tons of them because Amazon) and line it with a Target bag (a Walmart bag in a pinch). You make sure the box flaps are held down by the bag. Then you present PukeBox™ to the person who would like to throw up in it. When they have finished and are shooing you away through chattering teeth, you flee to the kitchen, grab the bag o'barf (ignoring the sloshing sounds), dump it into the garbage, make a mental note to take out the garbage, grab another Target/Walmart bag (Tarmart? Walget?) and line the (untouched by vomit!) box again, rinse, repeat, remember too late you never got around to taking out the garbage, recoil at the stink under the sink.

It's not sophisticated, but then, we aren't, either. Necessity is the mother of things to barf into. 

Tony was feeling much better by mid-afternoon, and by bedtime was confident enough to leave PukeBox™downstairs. This morning he was much improved, a relief for many reasons, since I woke up feeling more nauseated than I usually do when I have to face the day. I see lots of clear fluids in my future (and not the good ones like vodka). I see PukeBox™ looming large. I see myself leaving a full PukeBox™ for the mailman (that guy just seems to have it in for me, I've no idea why). I see recovery. I can get through all of it so long as I have PukeBox™ to sustain me. 

Oh, PukeBox™. Your service to this family will always be remembered.



* These magazines exist!