First thing first, I must decide how to properly
describe the sound of myself throwing up, because, unfortunately, this story is
going to entail a lot of that. I could go with traditional words such as puke, hurl,
barf, ralph, retch, or vomit, but in reality, the act of throwing up doesn’t really sound like any of those words.
Perhaps “bleagh” is more appropriate, or “blargh,” or “guahp,” or a prolonged
version of one of those, such as “bleaaaaaaaaaaagh,” or “bbblllaaarrrggghhh,” or
“guuuuaaaaaaahhp.” But to be honest, none of those words quite do justice when
describing the way it sounds when I
throw up. When I throw up it’s loud. When I throw up it’s theatrical. When I
throw up it sounds like a Tyrannosaurus Rex throwing up a cow that’s giving
birth to a porcupine. So perhaps, for literary purposes, the best way to
describe the act of me throwing up should be the word “Trexowpine!” as in, I
hovered over the toilet bowl, opened my mouth, and Trexowpine! Ok, now that
that’s settled, let’s get to the story.
I
get home from work and it feels like there’s a reenactment of the “Rumble in
the Jungle” inside my stomach. And not just the boxing match, not just Muhammad
Ali rope-a-doping George Forman, but also the 60,000 screaming fans in
attendance, yelling, and clapping, and jumping up and down. I hurry to the
bathroom and Trexowpine!
“I
think I have food poisoning,” I tell Katelin.
“It’s
probably just heat stroke.”
“No,
I’m pretty sure…Trexowpine!...it’s food poisoning.”
“Well,
what did you eat?”
“I
had the leftover shrimp for dinner last night.”
“Oh,
yes, it’s definitely from the shrimp. That’s why I don’t eat shellfish,” she states, a-matter-of-factly.
“I
think I’m going to die,” I say as I make my way from the bathroom to the couch.
“Oh
stop. You just have ‘man’ cold.”
“I
don’t have ‘man’ cold. I have food poisoning.”
“Well,
then you have ‘man’ food poisoning. Quit being such a baby,” she says as I
stumble back to the bathroom and sit on the toilet seat. Number2! (Do I need to
go into further detail? I didn’t think so.)
“Google
says to drink ginger tea and apple cider vinegar,” she says as she sets two
glasses down on the coffee table.”
I
take a sip of the ginger tea. Trexowpine! I take a sip of the apple cider vinegar.
Number2! “I can’t do it,” I say. “They’re both disgusting.” Trexowpine and Number2!
“Quit
being a baby and just drink them. They’ll make you feel better.”
“I
can’t do it.” Trexowpine!
“Well,
I’m going to bed. Are you coming?”
“No.
I’m just going to stay on the couch.”
Five
minutes go by. Katelin comes out of the bedroom. “I don’t feel well,” she says
as she hurries into the bathroom.
Now, Katelin’s act of
vomiting doesn’t sound quite like mine. It’s a bit softer and less dramatic,
like a feline coughing up a bowl of hairball stew. Let’s call it “Feliballew!”
I
grab the garbage can out of the kitchen and set it next to the couch. Trexowpine!
Katelin kneels on the bathroom floor. Feliballew!
“Luckily you didn’t eat the shrimp,” I
say.
“Why
is this happening to us?” she asks. “What did we eat to deserve this?”
Feliballew!
“Taco
Bell,” I reply. “Taco Bell is the only thing that we both ate.” Trexowpine!
“Does
that mean we can never eat Taco Bell again?” Feliballew!
“It
does.” Trexowpine!
“But
I love Taco Bell.” Feliballew!
“Drink
some ginger tea,” I say. “Have some apple cider vinegar.”
“I
can’t do it.”
“Quit being a baby. It’ll make you feel
better.” Trexowpine!
“Screw
you!” Feliballew! “I’ve never been so sick in my life. I wouldn’t wish this on
my worst enemy.”
“I
would.” Trexowpine! “I wish this on Tom Brady. I wish an eternity of this on
him.”
“Oh
shit!” Number2! “We’re out of toilet paper.”
“This
is going to be a long night.” Trexowpine!
It’s
a long night. I can’t sleep. I chug water and then I Trexowpine! it up, over
and over again. Maybe I can flush the poison out of my system. Water. Trexowpine!
Water. Trexowpine! Water. Trexowpine!
For
twelve hours straight, I Trexowpine! For twelve hours straight, Katelin
Feliballew!s We both have enough Number2!s to go through a roll of paper towels.
It
finally subsides. The Trexowpine!s stop. The Feliballew!’s stop. The Number2!s
stop! But we still both feel like a couple of zombies who got run over by a
tractor trailer. We make our way into bed. “If this is it what it feels like to
kick heroin,” I say, “then I fully understand why nobody kicks heroin. If you
offered me a needle full of anything right now, and told me that I would feel
better if I injected it into my arm, I gladly would.”
“Oh
my God,” Katelin says, staring into her smart phone. “My grandma died this
morning.”
“I’m
sorry, sweetie,” I say.
An
hour goes by. “Oh my God,” Katelin says, again staring into her smart phone. “Your
grandma died this morning too.”
“What
are the chances of that?” I ask. “Maybe we
were supposed to die, but they took our place instead.”
Another
hour goes by and I decide to venture to the drug store for some supplies. It’s only
a quarter-mile away. I’ve run marathons, bicycled across the United States
twice, and canoed the Mississippi River, yet the quarter mile to the drug store
and back is the hardest journey I’ve ever taken.
When
I get home we sip on Pedialyte, eat chicken noodle soup and watch some movie
where Liam Neeson kills people, because apparently that’s all Liam Neeson does these
days.
“Do
you still love me?” Katelin asks.
“Of
course I do,” I answer. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because
you heard me being sick all night.”
“If
anything, I love you more than ever. Going through something like this only
makes our love stronger.”
“It
does?”
“It
does. It’s just too bad we can never have sex again…”
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