You know you’re sick when the bathroom floor seems like the best place to sleep. That’s exactly where I was a couple of weeks ago, with a roll of toilet paper as my pillow. I prayed to the porcelain goddess so hard that my husband brought me a sleeping bag because crawling back to the couch was too difficult.
The stomach bug had bit our kids two days before. My son escaped fifth-grade humiliation by his quick-thinking teacher, who sent him off into the hall with a trash can just in time. (No word yet on whether or not the school has bought her a new wastebasket.) The principal found him on the stairs, struggling toward the office.
My daughter woke up Thursday night and made my husband and I give thanks to the universe that our washing machine was working again. I cleaned the same load of bedding three times. With bleach.
“It’s been two days,” I told my husband on Saturday morning. “We’re not sick yet, so maybe we’re immune.”
“Shh!” he knocked on the wooden kitchen table. “Don’t jinx us.”
A few hours later I developed a headache. Then I felt a bit achy. After that, my body propelled me through the worst possible weight-loss regime known to man. My husband reported that at one point I deliriously mumbled about Tamiflu and God, but I don’t remember any of that.
When I finally crossed over to the other side 24 hours later and could once again form complete sentences, my husband gave me devastating news. Our pet fish, Princess Rip-Jaws, was dead. It was either a cruel coincidence, or evidence of our family being cursed.
I was unable to attend Princess Rip-Jaws’ funeral. The thought of fish and sewers in general was more than I could stomach. I plugged my ears when I heard the flush, but did listen to the solemn blessing for her new life with Nemo.
By Monday evening I was back in full communion with the couch, watching Netflix and bravely drinking Gatorade. My husband tried to force-feed us pancakes, and my daughter and I flatly refused to eat. My son took a few bites to be polite, and then joined our protest. The smell of melting butter was so strong that breakfast-for-dinner seemed evil.
Tuesday morning when my husband left for work I implored him. “If you start to feel sick, come home early.” The poor guy had taken care of all three of us, disinfected the entire house, and done multiple loads of laundry. He looked worn out.
I, on the other hand, felt reborn. I enjoyed toast with honey for breakfast. I took a shower and it felt like heaven. I dug around my closet for my old skinny jeans, and was delighted they were now a perfect fit.
Then I headed back to the couch. After all, there wasn’t any need to push it.
Jennifer Bardsley lives in Edmonds. Her book “Genesis Girl” comes out Sept. 27. Find her online on Instagram @the_ya_gal, Twitter @jennbardsley or at teachingmybabytoread.com.
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