Death

I had violent morning sickness with my first daughter. I was throwing up for five months straight, absolutely nothing would stay down.

When I was pregnant with my second daughter I was very conscious of my nausea and very careful with what I ate in order to try and stave off the vomiting.

When I was almost five months pregnant I threw up for the first time.

It was about three in the morning.

I was, of course, upset about this. I was hoping that with this pregnancy I may just luck out and not be so sick as to actually throw up.

I drank some lemon water and tried to get back to sleep.

No luck.

Not even fifteen minutes later I was back in the bathroom removing the lemon water from my system.

This carried on three or four times until I woke my brother up (we lived together at the time) and told him that I was sick and needed to go to the store for some gingerale. I believe I said something along the lines of:

“Just so you know...if there’s a fire or something, you’re responsible for making sure Shake’n’Bake makes it out of the house alive.”

Damn you potato chips!

I got in my crapbox in the middle of winter, and struggled with driving it (the power steering is broken) to McDonalds – they don’t sell gingerale, Tim Horton’s – they don’t sell gingerale, and finally Mac’s where I paid a ridiculous amount of money for a single bottle.

Karma got them back though...I threw up in their parking lot.

I forced my weak shaking arms to fight my car’s power steering and allow me to return, in a cold sweat, to my apartment.

The gingerale did not work.

In fact, it only made my throat burn when I threw up. And yes, I had let it go flat first.

The door to my bedroom had no doorknob, just a vacant hole, and therefore it was impossible to close it and prevent my daughter from opening it.

This day that turned out to be a perk.

At about eight in the morning Shake’n’Bake woke up, and upon not finding me asleep in my bed, opened the door and ventured out to find me.

“Mommy... what you doing?” she asked.

“Go wake up your uncle.” Was all I managed to struggle out while lying uselessly on the floor of my bathroom.

She went to my brother’s door and began tapping on it while saying “knock knock knock.” Fortunately, since I have never let my daughter wake him up before, this unusual situation was enough to rouse him from his bed and make him come investigate the situation.

I told him that I was fairly certain I was dying and that he needed to take care of Shake’n’Bake for me. He agreed, (he was also her usual babysitter at the time, so none of the daily tasks were difficult for him) and left me to my slow and painful death on the bathroom floor.

Then the diarrhea started.

But the vomiting did not stop.

I never thought I would truly appreciate the placement of the toilet and the bathtub in my bathroom until that day.

I suffered and suffered; I ended up in the hospital on IV because I was dehydrated. Normally, I would have waited it out, but I was pregnant and really didn’t want my body to assume that I was dying and give up on keeping the baby alive, in a last-ditch-attempt to save my life.

For 2 days I suffered so, (Thank GOD for baby wipes!) until at last I started to feel better.

Of course, by ‘feel better’ I mean that the vomiting stopped and was instead replaced by muscular pain around my abdomen SO FIERCE that I would literally compare it to being hit by a car.

And yes, I have been hit by a car.

That night Shake’n’Bake got it.

Poor kid.

Two days later my brother got it.

I remember stopping by the bathroom door and asking him if I could get him anything. After a moment of silence the only reply I got was, “A gun.”

The doctor said it was Norwalk.



I believe that I am completely reasonable in calling it Death.