…here’s the sole entry from the abortive attempt at blogging at the Amazing Whitebread site:
OK, so I should probably use my first blog entry to share a bunch of interesting facts about my background, hype the big book I’ve got coming out in November, tell you which magazines I have short stories appearing in this year, etc., but I’m more in the mood to write about the last week, which can be called, with no fear of exaggeration, one of the top (bottom?) three Worst Weeks of My Life. Here’s a rundown of the offending days:
Late Tuesday night/early Wednesday morning: Wife wakes up clutching stomach in agony, run/writhes to the bathroom and slams door. I briefly think, “Well, she shouldn’t have eaten all that butternut squash-sausage quiche. Then puking sounds begin. I immediately regret flippancy of my thought re quiche, but not content.
Wednesday, 5 a.m.:Wife’s still puking, so I get up with the 2 ½ year old ball of energy and whininess we call “son” and the crap- and shriek-emitting baked ham we call our 4 month old daughter. And have I mentioned today’s the day I starve myself in preparation for a “medical procedure” the next day? Let’s review the players: me, depleted of both patience and good humor by low blood sugar; a little boy screaming “More Chuggington! More Chuggington!” at the top of his lungs; a baby girl with noise at one end and an overactive Poop Shooter™ at the other; a writhing, moaning wife (and not in the good way). If that isn’t comedy gold, nothing is.
Wednesday, 6 p.m.: After day of “Gandhi plays Mr. Mom,” I gather last little bit of strength to microwave a pizza for the boy before I toss him into street to share it with the stray dogs. I then tie rope under baby’s arms and hang her from ceiling over kitchen sink, allowing me to occasionally hose her off with the sprayer and have the resultant slurry of water, slobber, and poo run straight into drain. Wonder why I hadn’t thought of this before. Visit wife in sealed-off bedroom, which now smells like the dysentery ward of a third-world hospital. To top it all off, I drink my first liter of prescription “cleanser” to finish the purification process for procedure the next day. Apparently I got “Refreshing Lemon-Vomit Flavor” instead of “Cherry.”
Wednesday, 6:05 p.m. – midnight: Entire time spent fighting sick wife for toilet space. Briefly consider tying myself up next to baby, but then who’d work the sprayer? By midnight, both kids are asleep, and I’m completely drained of all contents, including food, necessary nutrients, energy, good will, sense of hope for the future, and, I suspect, one or two major organs. The kind you need, not like an appendix or tonsils.
Thursday, 2 a.m.:Wake to drink second liter of cleanser. Am now sure there was mix-up at pharmacy, and I got industrial strength floor stripper instead of prescribed purgative. Spend rest of night parked in bathroom with old copies of Action Comics as my only solace.
Thursday, 6 a.m.:Biggest snowstorm in recorded history (not a joke) hits Dallas just as mother-in-law arrives to give me ride to hospital. Normally not the best combination of events, but turns out to be highlight of week. Yeah, it’s that bad.
Thursday proper: Get a nice nap while I’m getting plugged on both ends like a piece of corn on the cob by overenthusiastic gastroenterologist. Wake up thinking, “So this is what prison feels like….” On plus side, get to ignore diet and grab some Taco Bell on the way home. For the 15 seconds it remains in my body, it is magical.
Friday, 5:30 a.m.:Son wakes me up, and I immediately know something’s wrong with me. Achey, hot, rumbly tumbly: this doth not bode well.
Friday, 9 a.m.:In a surge of weakness and nausea, I realize, “Yes, Virginia, you did get your wife’s stomach flu.” Yell “Watch the boy!” to wife as I hunker down on bathroom floor and grab toilet like it’s the last life vest on the Titanic. Spend next half hour switching between the bathroom floor and the inside of the tub, depending on if I’m sweating or shivering at the time. Never actually puke, but pray for it. Or death. Whichever would have been fine with me at that point.
Friday, 3 p.m.:Wife (still sick) and I continue to try and take care of children, who seem immune to the bug. I make note to have them tested later for cool mutant healing ability. Make eye contact with wife from couch and get her “Don’t bother me, I’m in the middle of formulating a murder/suicide pact” look. Go back to watching train cartoons with boy.
Friday, midnight: Baby finally goes to bed; wife and I collapse in pool of sweat and bodily fluids. Again, not in the good way. Sweet oblivion sweeps over us.
Saturday: I honestly don’t remember a thing about Saturday. This is probably best for everyone.
Sunday: Wife and I wake up feeling markedly better. Both starving by end of the day, so I go to Whole Foods and buy one of everything in the deli. Bring home feast, and we each eat ½ a plate before our withered stomachs force us to stop. I’m glad my appetite has shrunk, but shed a tear for all the uneaten yumminess mocking me from the still-full grocery sacks. Just as we’re heading to bed that night, something hits me. “Um…happy Valentine’s Day, baby,” I tell wife. “Oh yeah. Huh. You too.”
Monday: Back to work after 5-day orgy of puke and other digestive amusements. I end up leaving the house 15 minutes late and slip on the ice in my rush. I’ve got scuffed pants and a bloody knee, but no time to change. I trade the shards of my shattered tea cup for a new one, then hightail it to work. Rest of day is, well, Monday, and that’s bad enough in itself.
Tuesday: OK. Feeling healthy, getting my appetite back, and it’s not Monday: this should be good. It actually is, too, until I get a call from the doctor who performed my procedure telling me the things they took out of me on Thursday came back from the lab as pre-cancerous. He tells me to “schedule an appointment so we can discuss the significance of finding them in a person as young as you.” Spend rest of day pricing headstones and coffins on-line (But totally not in a morbid way.). You wouldn’t believe how few places sell nice, old-fashioned “toe pincher” coffins anymore. It’s sad.
Wednesday: Remember I’ve got actually stuff going on in my life other than worrying myself to death, decide to start a blog to take my mind of my troub…. Damn.