Welcome to the Vomitorium

11/27/06


“How was your Thanksgiving” is probably a question a lot of us will be asked a maddening number of times today, and to avoid anyone unnecessarily speaking to me, I’ll go ahead and tell you: Not so good. I had the pleasure of contracting viral gastroenteritis, commonly known as “the stomach flu,” despite the fact that it has absolutely nothing to do with influenza. Even so, goddamn if it isn’t a nasty little bugger.

Hanni calls my “delusion” that I am incapable of getting sick “a Jesus complex,” but really I do have a pretty stalwart immune system, and I’d never had this particular affliction before. Oh sure, I’d faked it probably hundreds of times when I was a kid (lots of noises in the bathroom, throwing water into the toilet, holding the thermometer up to the light bulb) and I shudder to think how many times I’ve called into work with the dubious and vague “uh, yeah, I’m like…totally throwing up so…not coming in…cough.” For those blessed few of you who, like me up until this demonic weekend, have never flirted with V.G., I’ll give you a few highlights from the CDC:

“The main symptoms of viral gastroenteritis are watery diarrhea and vomiting.
The affected person may also have headache, fever, and abdominal cramps
("stomach ache"). In general, the symptoms begin 1 to 2 days following infection
with a virus that causes gastroenteritis and may last for 1 to 10 days,
depending on which virus causes the illness.”

Or, as I prefer to call it, “reverse-rape via projectile vomiting and explosive diarrhea for stretches of time best measured in eons.” Something has clearly gone desperately wrong inside you whenever all the liquids in your body are attempting to abandon ship at once through any orifice not nailed shut.


I awakened Saturday morning around 10 a.m. to the sounds of my fiancé blasting fecal matter into the toilet at orbital-escape velocities and cursing at me for not getting up once in the past 3 hours she had been courting the relationship between her ass and the toilet. Apparently I’d already failed the whole “in sickness or in health” bit. But to be fair, I don’t remember her calling me at all, and why became immediately apparent as I sprinted to our other bathroom and joined the cacophony of horror echoing through the apartment. At first I thought this was the first really bad hangover I’ve had in about five years, but as both Hanni and I lay in bed with stomach cramps and sore rectums the vomiting began.

This is not a hangover, I thought as I spewed into a Styrofoam cooler I’d procured for just this sort of emergency on my way back from my third or forth poo of the morning. Hanni had an empty trashcan on her side. It did not remain empty for long. Oh, did I mention that I had Rotel Queso dip at about 3 that morning when I still felt fine? Yeah. The smell of partially digested tortilla chips and cheese joined a chorus of horrifying stenches permeating our home. By the end of it the apartment would smell not unlike a monkey with a lower G.I. problem got loose in the elephant house.

We weren’t the only ones, either. Hanni’s father, uncle, grandmother, grandfather, aunt and sister would all also come down with this voodoo distress. Her sister Suzanne is the most perplexing case of all, however, as she was out of the state for 3 days already when everyone fell ill; all within hours of each other. She was in Texas with her husband and the only way I can figure this affliction would be worse is to have it at 70 mph, stopping at every disgusting rest area along the way. We at first thought the Typhoid Mary of this case was a baby who everyone delightfully got to see have diarrhea at Thanksgiving dinner, but Suzanne wasn’t there…so I dunno, phantom, syringe-wielding weasels, maybe? And if you’re thinking salmonella trust me, that turkey was cooked to bejezzus and back; it wasn’t salmonella.


Hanni’s family was in possession of some leftover anti-nausea prescription medication, but Hanni’s mother wouldn’t bring it to us ‘cause, y’know, she would have had to drive the 18 miles from Billings to Springfield and, as she put it in one of the all-out craziest fucking statements I’ve ever heard, “how will you be able to go through childbirth if you can’t handle this?”

Fortunately my mother brought us Sprite, Gatorade, ibuprofen, anti-diarrhea and anti-nausea medicine because she doesn’t hate us. Incidentally, she brought over this anti-nausea stuff called Nauzene and let me tell you, ask for this by name because it is dyno-MITE! It comes in cherry-flavored chewable tablets which actually taste good, and “reaches 99% of its neutralizing ability within 4 minutes.” Brother, that’s no brag because literally within ten seconds of swallowing the pills we both felt immeasurably better and didn’t puke again.


By Saturday night the siege seemed to be over and I was finally able to consume solid food, though Hanni is still on a soup and club soda regimen. I don’t think either of us will crap right for several weeks.