Chapter Twenty
I don’t know if it’s a mother’s worst nightmare, or just my worst nightmare. Probably just mine, but…
12:59AM.
“I threw up!”
If a shot could shoot faster than me, I wouldn’t put a bet on it. Somehow The Bear was already in his room adhering to the… situation. Comet spray or Clorox or something like that. And all the last bright colors of washcloths from the linen closet. In my delusional state, I still remembered to pat myself on the back at first. I thought I handled it better this time. And then almost immediately the worst scenarios flooded my head… upchuck, dehydration, doctor, hospital, IV, days, nights, weeks, months: hospital, my strong, healthy boy… an invalid… Then I forget that pat on the back and remembered something in that Ann Voskamp book I finished yesterday. Wasn’t there something in there about anxiety and fear being a sort of “technical” atheism? I thought about this gut-kicker to myself while I transfer Puck to the couch, trying to pretend that I wasn’t concerned for my strong young man. He’s not bothered. 45 minutes later – somehow it took that long to acclimate everything – he finished off the mess one more time, but didn’t want to sit still.
“Crackers! I want Crackers, Mom!”
I prevented him from running off to the basement to get her. Still, though both my boys fell back to snoring by two and two-thirty, I couldn’t sleep. My stomach was all knotted up, embarrassingly. Who gets upset about that, really? Fortunately Mom never minds a 1:08AM phone call for advice and reassurance. We were back in some kind of form by six. Puck had to be told to stay resting. The Bear and I found our own stomachs coiled up a bit. We began to wonder if the garlic germ from the delicious casserole was to blame. Not so uncommon a thing, apparently. Puck was starved anyway, begging for Crackers and Netflix. Giggling. A sea urchin mess of blonde hair above cool cheeks and red jams. The Bear decided to send me to church, still, trying to distract me from my woes of just the result of being alive, apparently…
“Here,” he says, “pulling a tax form from his violin case. If you’re good, I’ll let you fill out some paperwork for me, too.”
This is tempting… Maybe the one advantage of not sleeping from 1AM on, by the way, is that the dreams are out the window. No Chinese Taipei female weight lifting competitions for me. But I also wasn’t able to wake up to my son still tucked under the covers of his bed playing his harmonica as I had Saturday morning. Still, I pulled myself together for a drive out to church, alone, for the first time in some very long time. By myself, I mean, wearing, ironically, the exact same outfit I wore four weeks ago to the day when the Christmas episode had befallen us. Fortunately I left knowing a couple of things for my own sake and sanity. One – Puck did not have a fever. Two – between the three of us, it was pretty likely that purple garlic germ had been the downfall in the night. And Three – maybe it was a good thing I hadn’t suggested my original idea for Saturday night. That Puck spend the night with Theodore and Gloria while The Bear and I went out to see “Les Mis”. Puck would never have wanted to spend the night anywhere, again. And the sun was out. For once, I liked that. Sick days seem less weird – especially on a Sunday – if you can get going with the sun. Even if it wasn’t a real sick day. After all, I left Puck giggling on the couch to Tom & Jerry or some other nonsense, The Bear planted on the couch right beside him.
I parked in the back of the lot at six minutes till nine, and still my seat wasn’t taken. Dad handed me a bulletin, ushering at the door…
“Are you pretty tired?” he asked me.
“Yeah,” I nodded, a bit in a daze, although not as much as I would have thought. “Pretty tired.”
Mom, Francis, and Linnea-Irish walked in past nine, but the service still hadn’t started. For once, they joined me in the back row, except for Mom, who was sorting out more issues in the foyer. Francis sat next to me. I could sense he was nodding off during the prayer of intercession. I poked him…
“Sometimes I just fall asleep during his prayers,” he whispered a little too loudly right behind the ears of the elder-in-question’s son.
I looked over during the sermon introduction and he was taking apart my red phone case. Eventually he found what he was looking for, I guess, and returned it to the cushioned seat. That was about the time that Linnea and I joined Mom in the foyer to take care of further issues, just as the passage from Galatians was being read, which ended up in none of us hearing the sermon. I skipped Sunday School, too. Sometimes it’s more important to discuss and try to relax a little bit. So that’s what Mom and I did for once, sitting in the dimmed sanctuary. 45 minutes passed quickly. There was just enough time to discuss the rest of the week’s plan before the continuation of Sunday started. For the benefit of all involved, a mutual decision was made to keep my side at home. On the outside chance there was contagion involved, Francis didn’t need a similar upchucking prior to surgery. Equally just to be safe, I walked through a surprisingly crowded Dierberg’s on the way home for bananas, applesauce, and strawberry Jell-O. [Puck did not like the Jell-O.]
When I walked in the door, he was rolling around trying to catch the cat. So much for the invalidism. He was starved for more food, which we allowed in gradual portions. But I was crashing. So while The Bear read more Happy Hollisters to Puck on the couch, I, yes, broke my beliefs once again, and… napped. Yes, napped. Gray when I woke. A quiet sort of pearl gray in the sky that seemed unexpected for the day, but I liked it. I had missed Mom’s call at 3:40. She filled me in on more things that always seem to happen even if you just talked four hours ago. The piano move had been switched to that afternoon instead. Dad directed Joe, Linus, his friend, and Francis through the process of lifting the monster out of the house. While Carrie read Rose’s temperature on the antique thermometer, as I had been obsessively doing for my own son all day long. Rose had felt a little funny Friday night and onward I guess, but there was no fever. Then the call ended quick because Dad and Mom were delivering groceries to Grandma Snicketts, grabbing a bite, and taking in the six o’clock show of “The Hobbit”. We scrubbed some things, got the laundry spinning, dishes and things, while Puck finished his second full feature of the day. Got to talk, The Bear and I a little on a day so quiet on a Sunday afternoon in January that it was almost eerie. I knew sending Puck to the shower wasn’t high on his wish list that afternoon. Why would he want to wash his hair when he was perfectly thrilled to laugh at the Aristocats on The Bear’s iPad? I think the trick, however, merely involves The Bear administering the shower. Puck couldn’t be happier. As I cleaned up the rest of the kitchen, his voice rose over the steaming water, singing to beat the band.
Thunk, thunk, thunk…
I knew it was the rubber ball – version three – from Old Navy. Hitting the ceiling. After The Bear washed his hair, Puck screeched…
“Dad! Tell Mom to come see what I made!”
I see it. The tub has been plugged up with a sparkly gold-and-water ball. The shower still roars over it, creating the image of a garden pool. Puck is dancing around, no cares, happy and naked and dancing more than is advisable or safe. As long as he’s healthy, how can I care? I stay to supervise, per his request, which is also surprising. He asks for his lime green goggles from the bottom drawer of his dresser to complete the effect. Which concludes with…
“Mom! Can I eat in the shower?”
“No…”
Of course I walk back into the kitchen and Crackers has torn the turkey right off Puck’s plate, devouring it steadily. I knew that was a mistake. I looked over again and she’s pawing at the stack of Saltines.
“Bad Crackers. Bad. This is not your dinner.”
She doesn’t care. The sky was a different kind of light, then.. All rose and lavender and a little blue in the northwest, and orange and pale gold in the southwest. I filled out that tax form for The Bear. Dark comes quickly, then, as we huddled around the kitchen table for the third and final electronic installment of the day for my hearty son, “Finding Nemo”. The Bear downed a huge bowl of popcorn, just because he could. My boys laughing together over the antics of Pixar. Films can have their merits. Even if I can’t exactly chalk up this one as a “sick day”, occasionally it’s helpful to pretend.