When it came to the week of Thanksgiving Break, I was worried about all the wrong things. Clearly, my life is a comedy, and I should have recognized havoc steadily making its advancing approach the previous days. I thought that my children were going to express some explicit busy-ness, that they were going to spend the days being bored, which usually translates to following mommy around and asking random questions.
Instead, they spent half of the week with their big cousin, who is particularly patient and humorous. During the second half of the week, I’m not even sure what they did with daddy because
The heavy symptoms of a stomach virus made its frontal attack on me at about 1 p.m. on Thanksgiving Day. The morning of the holiday was going swimmingly. We had watched the televised parade (and got excited when Elmo sang). The Christmas tree was up and the kiddies “helped” mommy apply ornaments. My husband had begun his seasonings and baking for that day’s dinner and those distinctive smells of soulful foods lifted to the air of our home. I had a stomachache that I chalked up to a weirdly-timed gas bubble, so I ate a small breakfast and three Tums to settle.
I had been planning to fill my tummy with this dinner for a week. I literally lost weight to ward off “unwanted” weight gain.
I took a nap with Jrue around lunchtime. I woke up 30 minutes later feeling fine…then, I wasn’t. My stomachache began radiating through my entire midsection. I felt super-tired suddenly; the more I attempted to pick up toys and do laundry to prepare for our dinner visitors, the slower I got. The potty trips started…I “went” three times in an hour. I told my husband that I didn’t feel good and that I needed to lay down again.
I made it back to the toilet to throw up.
And there it went. As the cooking started and my olfactory system took in the scents, I remained wrapped in my bed in the fetal position, completely nauseous, breathing out of my mouth to avoid vomiting again.
It didn’t work.
When I tried to roll side to side, I got nauseous. My stomach was beating like a heart. I stayed in one sleep position for hours. I knew that dehydration was a major concern, so I sipped water when I could lift my head to do so. I could hear everyone in the living room eating dinner, laughing, talking…my boss, my husband, my nephew, my children…all were watching football and tearing into my favorite baked macaroni and cheese without me.
I was so sick, though, I couldn’t even think to be depressed.
I finally started feeling a bit better enough to check my urine production at 11 that night. It had been almost 12 hours of quarantine. I had missed Thanksgiving.
By Friday early morning, I was crazy bedsore, but holding in water, which I gulped to work towards bringing down my racing heartbeat. The hubs was fantastic, getting the kids up and going out of the house, away from mommy’s contagion, and letting my boss know that I was temporarily out of commission. I worked towards getting back my strength by praying and sleeping and moving slowly around the house.
I got increasingly better as the weekend moved forward, just in time for the hubs to be down with a milder form of my virus on Saturday afternoon into the night.
We have quite the synchronicity.
Here’s the moral of my story: We receive what we ask for. I wanted a “nice, long break” with “plenty of rest.” Guess what I got? The weekend was lengthy for me as I spent hours sleeping or staring out at a bare tree through my bedroom window.
Those four days of my particular break felt more like…12.
It’s time I specify a bit better to the Universe.
And wash my hands more.
To avoid unplanned empathy, when others ask how my Thanksgiving went, I just say, “Oh, fine. Restful.”