I'm Just Saying

The other day someone mentioned the name of a little French restaurant on Southside, and I instantly flashed to me barfing lobster bisque onto our driveway after dinner there two Februarys ago. It wasn’t the food that made me sick (or the wine); it was a stomach virus my daughter brought home from school. And it happened to hit just as we arrived home that evening. 



Recalling the horror of it all made me ponder how long it had been since I’d hosted a stomach bug. Two years exactly. Huh, I thought. I wonder if I can live a good long life without ever having one again? I bet I can do it.

That very night after my husband clicked off the special post-Super Bowl episode of House, I had trouble falling asleep. Something just wasn’t right. I tossed around like flipper in search of a magical portal to a peaceful, sleepy place. Images of Dr. House’s diagnosis and those graphic shots they show of what’s happening inside the body flickered as I squirmed, and my mind swelled with drama. I felt hot and sick.

Maybe I had the same thing the woman House treated had. I don’t remember what it was called, but House was the only one who could save her. Where would I find a real-life Dr. House to fix me? I hope he’d be nicer to me than the TV Dr. House. “I don’t feel good!” I blurted out loud. “I’m sorry, Honey. Please be still,” whispered my husband.



Three hours later, I was yanked from my covers and dragged into the bathroom by an invisible beast. What happened after that is just way too revolting to share. But I will say there were two sides to the story, if you catch my drift. It was bad. Real bad.

When round-one was over—I knew there would be more—I gripped the counter for balance and squinted into the mirror at my lifeless expression. My skin was the color and texture of iceberg lettuce. I wiped away my sweat mustache, splashed water on my face and turned to head back to bed. As I reached up a cold clam-hand to turn out the light, I spotted the digital scales on the floor beneath the towel rack. I couldn’t stop myself, I had to do it. I could barely stand, but I had to. One point five pounds lighter than this morning. So cool, I weakly glowed as I harmoniously questioned my sanity and cringed at my vanity. Dr. House would not be amused. 



I slept for two more hours before the next vomit/ria fest, and then again for an hour, until I hit the dreaded every-thirty-minutes mark. That’s when I stopped trying to swing a deal with God and started begging for a cold and cozy grave. At some point, I managed to jerk down a towel for a blanket before slipping unconscious.

Almost violently, I burst into a dream where I was making out with Dr. House. He had coffee breath and tense lips. He seemed frustrated and not at all into it. But, somehow, I totally was. Just as he managed to push me off him with his cane, and I was suggesting we backpack to Prague, my eyes swung open.

I was soaked in sweat and drooling onto the shag bathmat. About twenty minutes later, I had labored my way to my feet and peeled the bathmat from my body. Then, with way more effort than should be medically allowed in my state, I stepped on the scales, for the fourth or fifth time. I painstakingly resisted the primal impulse to brace myself. Holding on to something would affect the scales’ reading. 



After swaggering back to bed—a little over three pounds lighter but without the spring in my step to match—I shivered myself to sleep. Once again Dr. House haunted my head uninvited. He was into me, I said to myself. He was just playing it cool.