Waiting for IT to happen

[gumdropper1]

I came across this on the web. I think it's a kind of funny story about how non-emets view stomach viruses. They dread them too but not as much as emets.

The dreaded demon flu
When suffering, it's important to suffer well

It's four a.m. You wake up. As you have a conversation with your body, you become aware of a sensation in your stomach. you lie to yourself for awhile. Maybe it's something you ate. Maybe it's gas. No. There is no mistaking this feeling. It's the dreaded, demon flu!


And so, you lie there awake, waiting for IT to happen, thinking, "Oh no. I have the flu. Why am I being punished? Why do I have go get sick now? Why couldn't I get sick on any of those mornings when I woke up and thought now nice it would be to stay in bed all day and not go to work? I can't have the flu today! I've got too much to do! It's not fair. I hate this."


And so, you keep waiting for IT to happen, flip-flopping on the bed trying to find a way to ease the hot knives and spiked bowling balls that are taking turns hacking away at the inside of your stomach. Every once in a while, you groan audibly, hoping your partner in life will wake up and ask if you're alright, to which you will reply, sobbing a little, "No, I think I have the flu." If it wasn't dark, he would notice your lower lip sticking out.


Instead of offering sympathy, he jettisons himself from the room with his pillow and a blanket, shouting, "Don't come near me!"


Dawn finally arrives. As the sun bounces over the horizon like a freshly toasted pop tart, you bounce out of bed in a big hurry because it's time for IT to happen. The life partner is having a shower and you live in a one-bathroom home. Oh well. Love means having to share these ugly experiences. As you inspect the plumbing from close range, he jettisons himself from the shower, screaming and carrying on about court, lawsuits, and big settlements.

After IT is finally finished, you feel a little shaky but much better. You begin your morning routine of showering and getting ready for work. He says, "What the hell are you doing?"

"I am getting ready for work. I feel much better now. Honest."

"Don't be an idiot."

"Look, it's Monday. I've got a lot to do today and I can't just leave it for someone else. I'm alright now."

"You're such a martyr."

And so you go into work and people mention that they can't make out your face when you are standing next to a white wall. Suddenly, the second wave hits. Uh oh. What are you going to do? You refuse to stoop to such a demeaning and humiliating experience as throwing up in the office washroom.

Ever so calmly, you put on your coat and inform the one in charge you are suffering life-threatening nausea and must go home. The minute you get out the office door you run at full speed to your car, turn the corner to your home in fifth gear, and barrel up the ol' stairs not even bothering to check the mailbox. You run into the bathroom and the cat is drinking out of the toilet.

Now that the second wave has subsided, you finally quit denying you are going to be alright, accept your impending death as inevitable, and crawl back into bed wearing your favourite sweatshirt and torn grey jogging pants. You lie there in the dark, not able to read or even listen to the radio because it hurts too much. You can't bring yourself to cuddle with the cats who have come in to the room to ask if you want to go out to the living room to watch Donahue with them.

Donahue is pretty tempting material. You move it out to the couch, and sure enough, today's topic is "sex addiction." This is too much for an already nauseous person and you shuffle back to bed. You begin mumbling to yourself, because for some reason, it makes your stomach feel better. "I hate being sick. Nobody cares. Nobody loves me. If I died right this minute, nobody would care." Sniff.

By the time your mate arrives home from work, you've moved all the pillows and blankets to the couch and follow with your eyes as he goes to the fridge and gets a bottle of beer for himself. "Can I get you anything?" What a guy.

"I'm thinking maybe I could drink a little big of ginger ale." Your voice wavers a tiny bit.

He comes back from the kitchen with the information there isn't any ginger ale. You tell him, "Oh, it's okay. I'll be alright. Do not worry about me. I do not need any ginger ale."

He sighs heavily and glances at his opened beer. "I'll go to the store and get some ginger ale." What a guy.

You are watching the news and there is a health feature describing a flu virus going around called the A Strain B Complex Ralpheococci. "That's just what I have," you tell the television set. Somehow, knowing seven million other people are also experiencing the dreaded demon flu makes you feel a trifle better.

By mid-evening, you are feeling well enough to make several demands per hour. "I'm thinking maybe I could try a little piece of toast now... Could you get that Life magazine from the bedroom?... Will you get my slippers? Will you change the channel?"

You go back to bed that night, fairly optimistic about your chances of recovery for the next morning. A sound of someone flip-flopping around next to you wakes you up at about 4 a.m.

"Are you feeling alright?" you ask.

He answers, "Well, yes, but I know it's only a matter of time before I get it too, so I'm just lying here waiting to feel bad."

What a guy.