Sickness & Recovery

Saturday had been one of, if not the, worst day of Collette’s life. Puck had come down with a bug, completely out of the blue. And it slammed him hard. After five and a half hours of continuous “loosing his breakfast”, and then some, Puck’s stomach was finally relieved enough to beg for water, what little Collette could give the poor baby.
He was a clever one, though, if not a little sly. After Collette told him that she couldn’t give him any more water, she washed off his pacifier, and handed it back to the tear-stained fellow. He popped it in his mouth, and almost immediately returned it to her, saying, “Wash off? Wash off?” He repeated this a few times, until Collette realized that it was his own way of getting more water into his system. Collette had to laugh at his tactic.
It had been awful. Just awful. And Collette prayed it would never happen to him like that again.
“Collette,” said OLeif, “he’s my son. It hits him hard and quick, and then it’s all over and he’s back to normal again.”
Despite the assurance, Collette’s stomach was still in knots all day, and not from being sick. Fortunately, Mom was able to join them that evening to give a hand when Puck woke a few times before midnight, craving bananas, crackers, and water, of which he had some of each.
Thankfully, by Sunday morning, after a twelve-hour recup for Puck (and OLeif, who was exhausted), he was well enough to have a mild breakfast, and head over to the house to celebrate his grandpa’s birthday.
Puck had missed two more basketball games on Saturday. The first — where his Lila scored two baskets. And the second — where Francis had made a great shot and scored. But there were still four weeks left in the season.
Dad’s birthday lunch was roast beef, potato casserole (a family favorite), where the usual conversation commenced: the basketball games, a rather gruesome ER story regarding one of Dad’s coworkers (which made Carrie plug her ears and hum the National Anthem to herself), and then the gifts.
First, a plastic bag with gold-toe black socks. Carrie or Mom usually hijacked Dad’s socks, which caused them to end up lost. So Dad was always in the need of more of them.
“Sorry, I didn’t get to wrap them,” said Mom.
The next gift was wrapped in an old bag of Carrie’s.
“Here, Dad,” said Francis, handing it to him. “We got you a purse to carry your socks in.”
“A lovely tote,” said Carrie.
Dad laughed. Inside — a framed photo of individual shots of the family. In two sizes. One for both his desks.
“That one of Mom I had to take right before I printed that,” said Carrie. “’Cause thanks to Rose we only have pictures of Mom with her eyes crossed.”
“You’re welcome,” said Rose with a grin, notorious for her bad photo file.
Dad liked the photos.
“Well, Dad,” said Joe, with a chuckle, “I got you what you always wanted for your birthday — a well-behaved kid.”
Dad thought this was funny.
After lunch, Joe walked around with a plastic cup stuck in his mouth, talking through it.
“You sound like all the adults in Charlie Brown,” said Mom.
Meanwhile, Rose had brought out all her oil paints, easel, and canvas.
“What should I paint?” she asked loudly.
By the time Collette had returned from Target with Carrie-Bri and Joe, Rose was plastered in oil paints, all over her arms, on her face, madly smashing her paint brush over the canvas as she watched a documentary on the Medicis.
“What do you think?” she asked Collette, holding up the canvas.
Two green hills against a black sky and round white moon. It was a start.
Then they sliced into the Dairy Queen peanut butter cup ice cream cake, which read in red lettering (at Joe’s request), “Well, here you go.”
This was followed with a drive out to the smoky hills, gray skies, and quiet streets and lights of Augusta.