A Rough Night and Our Hero

Last week, I was hit with a virus sent from Satan. This virus was crafted by the devil in the bowels of hell and then sent to render me a sniveling, useless twat. To say that it "hit" me is an understatement. It bludgeoned me. One minute I was sipping Merlot, engrossed in Piper Chapman's prison life and the next I was lying on the cool bathroom tiles wondering what the hell was happening. I went from 0 to 100 in seconds and, as a result, I confess that I panicked. The room was spinning and my chest felt tight, the walls seemed closer than they had a few minutes before. I hyperventilated and not in the cute way they do in the movies where a character gasps into a paper bag for a couple of minutes. Here's something they should teach you in grade 9 biology: when you hyperventilate severely enough, your body will shut down your limbs in an effort to protect your core. From the knees and elbows down, I felt a painful tingling sensation. Panicked, I put my hand on Tim and asked if he could feel the electricity coursing through me. Of course he couldn't but he noted right away that I felt icy. When my arms bent at the elbow involuntarily and my hands turned into gnarly little claws tucked under my chin, Tim said "shit, I'm scared" and he called 911. The paramedics talked me through some breathing exercises and, sure enough, my hands unclenched and the electric sensation passed. They checked me over and agreed that I was probably just getting the flu.

The paramedics drove off, ready for an actual emergency-not some hyperdramatic housewife. The barfing starting minutes after they left, Tim gathered my hair off my face and rubbed my back. When I realized that I didn't know which end of my body to present to the toilet, circling like a dog chasing it's tail, Tim ran for a bucket. He scooped my sweaty, shaky body off the bathroom floor and dragged me into bed. He pulled the covers over me and laid down next to me, anxious to close his eyes till the next wave of nausea would hit me. I groaned and he sat up just in time for me to puke down the front of my pajamas while trying to roll out of bed. A lesser man might have shrieked like a girl and vaulted himself out of our bed, but he said "aww hun, let's get you to the bathroom and then I'll get you some fresh jammies". It was 3am and we hadn't slept more than 40 minutes straight. Back in bed, Tim was just about to nod off when we heard Owen wail  "DAAAAAAADDY! I BARFED!". Like a caped crusader, Tim soared down the hall to our son. He stripped the bed, cleaned Owen up and comforted our sick kid. The rest of the night is a blur. When I wasn't gagging and stumbling around, Owen was. Tim spent the night trekking up and down the hallway tending to Owen and I. There was a staggering amount of soiled sheets, jammies and towels, Tim was doing laundry at 4am to keep linens available through the night and into the next day. He literally pulled an all-nighter to care for us. He found the energy to stay up all night and all day to care for the kids while I was bed-ridden. He brought dry toast up to my bed and urged me to eat something. It seems to me that there are defining moments in a marriage. Moments that illustrate true love and commitment to another human being. This flu was exactly one of those moments. Every cloud, eh? I got him a car polisher for Father's Day, somehow it doesn't seem like enough to express my appreciation for our hero. Too bad I can't afford that Bentley he lusts after. Wonder how much a strippergram would run me? ;)