Have you ever seen the movie, Final Destination? The premise, at least in the first one (there's like 4 or 5 sequels) is that a group of friends are taking a trip on a plane and one girl has a vision that the plane will crash and blow up. She gets on and panics and so gets off, along with some of her friends. Sure enough, the plane barely gets off the ground and then crashes and blows up. She, and her friends, essentially cheated death. The rest of the movie is about death seeking out each of them one by one, in the most graphic ways. After all, you can't cheat death. The girl figures this out and so the movie goes, watching her attempt to stay alive.
What does this have to do with the flu, you ask? I'm going to tell you, but I have to take a trip down memory lane. It was December 2006. Shark Bait and I were living together, sinfully, but at least we were recently engaged. Anyway, I woke up one night, about midnight, with horrible stomach cramps. I had been fine when I went to bed. But as I raced to the bathroom down the hall, it became clear, something had disagreed with me. After some time on the commode, I returned to the safety of my bed, a little out of breath, but relieved it was over. Except it wasn't, not ten minutes later, the race was on. I returned for another round of my intestines re-enacting a high velocity ride at Wild Waves. There was sweating and heavy breathing, it was likely I wouldn't make it. However, as you may have guessed, I did. I again returned to the safety of my bed. Not five minutes later, I again returned to the bathroom. This time the dry heaves, the panting, the sweating, the cramping the utter despair that I would never live to see another day consumed me. It's possible I just shit out my intestines and my stomach was making camp in my throat. I waited till the wave of terror ended and set up camp on the bathroom floor. I grabbed a towel for a pillow and another towel for my blanket and proceeded to lie there with the chills all night long. I took to the toilet as needed, but never strayed far, for fear I wouldn't make it back. Me and the toilet, we were close that night. A lot of religion was discussed that night. A lot of praying.
At 4AM, Shark Bait's alarm clock went off. Mind you, he was completely unaware his wife was riding the edge of feces and death at the same time all through the wee hours of the morning. This has been a sore point for years, but I digress. At any rate, he went to open the bathroom door and it clunked against my feet. "Baby, what's wrong? What happened, why are you on the floor?" I told him he was going to have to work around me, this was my home now. He went and got me a comforter and I snuggled in to that bathroom rug that rested on top of cold linoleum floor.
Shark Bait went to work and left me. He called me a little later to remind me we had a guest coming to stay with us who wanted to do some Christmas shopping in our area. It was too late for this person to turn back, they were well on their way. Well, I'm gonna be in the bathroom, so they can entertain themselves, I guess.
On a side note, I should mention, that this defining episode in history is when I knew Shark Bait and I would make it. He went to the store to get me baby wipes for my butt. He saw me sleeping on the floor next to the toilet and he got me butt wipes. This was love. We were going to have a great marriage.
Fast forward, our house guest, Loosey Loom, arrives. That night, guess what the Loosey Loom came down with? Same thing I had. The race was on, and we only had one bathroom. We would forever call this horrifying time, The Great Shit Race of 2006. Loosey Loom would take his turn in the bathroom, then I would run down the hall, butt clinched and praying. I'd take my turn. Shark Bait was there to take care of both of us. At one point Loosey Loom, who was sleeping on a pull-out couch in the front room, had the wiener dogs on the bed licking puke out of his mustache. He doesn't remember this, but I can't unsee it. It happened.
This illness was upon the house for two more days. It was now Christmas Eve and Loosey Loom felt well-enough to make it home, felt confident he could make it, with plenty of stops along the way.
A couple of days later, I had healed well-enough to travel and we headed over the mountains to visit Loosey Loom and the Mrs. Shark Bait had been lucky enough to not catch this, yet. We arrived at our destination and the power was out. It looked like we'd have a quiet evening by candle-light. As we sat there, the Mrs. seemed to be off her game. We all agreed to call it a night and go to bed.
Not long after all of us went to bed, Shark Bait and I heard a little bit of commotion. With no power, it was dead quiet. Turns out the Mrs. had caught the horrible bug and had not been able to make it out of bed fast enough. She had shit the bed and as if to add insult to injury, when she got to the bathroom, she didn't know whether to sit and shit or turn and hurl. She chose to turn and hurl, but as she did, shit shot out and sprayed the wall. Her body was completely out of control. She had zero capacity to control it. You've seen the Exorcist? Just insert shit into the scenario and you're there. Poor Mrs. Shark Bait went in to assist her in changing the bed and getting things in order. The power finally came back on and she was able to clean things up. It was horrifying. I knew how she felt as I had been there just a week before. This epic flu, the worst flu I have ever had, stayed with the Mrs. for a couple more days. We left a day or so later and headed home.
Shark Bait cared for three people during The Great Shit Race of 2006 and never got sick. It was as if he had cheated the flu.
Let's fast forward to yesterday. It was as if Final Destination was in full swing. Shark Bait had apparently been up all night running up and down the stairs having his own personal shit race, I had slept through it all (my turn to be oblivious). When I got up to go to work, he got up as well and said he'd been up all night. In truth, he didn't look good. I got ready for work and was getting ready to leave. He was sitting there so cute on the toilet, helpless, sickly, sweaty. I said, "I love you, but I'm not touching you or kissing you. I'm not getting this." I continued, "If you shit your pants while I'm at work today, I'm blogging about it."
Shark Bait took a quick shower in hopes he would feel better. I grabbed my pony lunch bag and was giving him one last good-bye when I heard all hell break loose in the bathroom. And when I say "break loose" I do mean that everything, every cell, every particle in his body went ape-shit crazy and came out of his mouth at a velocity that rivaled a fire hose. I didn't know what to do, I didn't want to hear this, but I couldn't just leave him like that. I stepped outside the bathroom and closed my eyes tight. I could still hear him. I started to pace, the puking would not stop. It was horrifying. It seemed like forever and finally he stopped. He staggered out of the bathroom and looked at me, "Aw damn, I got puke on my glasses." That pretty much did it for me. He was safe, I was out of there. I have never been so happy to go to work. He spent a treacherous 24 hours, but lived to tell the tale. Well, he didn't tell the tale as much as I did. I really can't help myself, but as I laid in bed last night, next to my sweaty, gross husband, it just popped in my head, "he thought he beat it, he thought he escaped...just like in Final Destination."
So, in light of my bedtime realization, I tell this story to you as a precautionary tale. Don't fight it. You can't. You see a sick stranger, lick them. Just do it, get it over with, get it out of the way, because when it comes for you, it's angry. Fate gets pissed when you try and escape the inevitable. I mean, I put Emergen-C in my protein shake every day and take my vitamins, but I already had this in epic 2006. The circle is finally complete. The last victim, the last "sacrifice" has paid the price.
Dear flu of 2015, go in peace.
What does this have to do with the flu, you ask? I'm going to tell you, but I have to take a trip down memory lane. It was December 2006. Shark Bait and I were living together, sinfully, but at least we were recently engaged. Anyway, I woke up one night, about midnight, with horrible stomach cramps. I had been fine when I went to bed. But as I raced to the bathroom down the hall, it became clear, something had disagreed with me. After some time on the commode, I returned to the safety of my bed, a little out of breath, but relieved it was over. Except it wasn't, not ten minutes later, the race was on. I returned for another round of my intestines re-enacting a high velocity ride at Wild Waves. There was sweating and heavy breathing, it was likely I wouldn't make it. However, as you may have guessed, I did. I again returned to the safety of my bed. Not five minutes later, I again returned to the bathroom. This time the dry heaves, the panting, the sweating, the cramping the utter despair that I would never live to see another day consumed me. It's possible I just shit out my intestines and my stomach was making camp in my throat. I waited till the wave of terror ended and set up camp on the bathroom floor. I grabbed a towel for a pillow and another towel for my blanket and proceeded to lie there with the chills all night long. I took to the toilet as needed, but never strayed far, for fear I wouldn't make it back. Me and the toilet, we were close that night. A lot of religion was discussed that night. A lot of praying.
At 4AM, Shark Bait's alarm clock went off. Mind you, he was completely unaware his wife was riding the edge of feces and death at the same time all through the wee hours of the morning. This has been a sore point for years, but I digress. At any rate, he went to open the bathroom door and it clunked against my feet. "Baby, what's wrong? What happened, why are you on the floor?" I told him he was going to have to work around me, this was my home now. He went and got me a comforter and I snuggled in to that bathroom rug that rested on top of cold linoleum floor.
Shark Bait went to work and left me. He called me a little later to remind me we had a guest coming to stay with us who wanted to do some Christmas shopping in our area. It was too late for this person to turn back, they were well on their way. Well, I'm gonna be in the bathroom, so they can entertain themselves, I guess.
On a side note, I should mention, that this defining episode in history is when I knew Shark Bait and I would make it. He went to the store to get me baby wipes for my butt. He saw me sleeping on the floor next to the toilet and he got me butt wipes. This was love. We were going to have a great marriage.
Fast forward, our house guest, Loosey Loom, arrives. That night, guess what the Loosey Loom came down with? Same thing I had. The race was on, and we only had one bathroom. We would forever call this horrifying time, The Great Shit Race of 2006. Loosey Loom would take his turn in the bathroom, then I would run down the hall, butt clinched and praying. I'd take my turn. Shark Bait was there to take care of both of us. At one point Loosey Loom, who was sleeping on a pull-out couch in the front room, had the wiener dogs on the bed licking puke out of his mustache. He doesn't remember this, but I can't unsee it. It happened.
This illness was upon the house for two more days. It was now Christmas Eve and Loosey Loom felt well-enough to make it home, felt confident he could make it, with plenty of stops along the way.
A couple of days later, I had healed well-enough to travel and we headed over the mountains to visit Loosey Loom and the Mrs. Shark Bait had been lucky enough to not catch this, yet. We arrived at our destination and the power was out. It looked like we'd have a quiet evening by candle-light. As we sat there, the Mrs. seemed to be off her game. We all agreed to call it a night and go to bed.
Not long after all of us went to bed, Shark Bait and I heard a little bit of commotion. With no power, it was dead quiet. Turns out the Mrs. had caught the horrible bug and had not been able to make it out of bed fast enough. She had shit the bed and as if to add insult to injury, when she got to the bathroom, she didn't know whether to sit and shit or turn and hurl. She chose to turn and hurl, but as she did, shit shot out and sprayed the wall. Her body was completely out of control. She had zero capacity to control it. You've seen the Exorcist? Just insert shit into the scenario and you're there. Poor Mrs. Shark Bait went in to assist her in changing the bed and getting things in order. The power finally came back on and she was able to clean things up. It was horrifying. I knew how she felt as I had been there just a week before. This epic flu, the worst flu I have ever had, stayed with the Mrs. for a couple more days. We left a day or so later and headed home.
Shark Bait cared for three people during The Great Shit Race of 2006 and never got sick. It was as if he had cheated the flu.
Let's fast forward to yesterday. It was as if Final Destination was in full swing. Shark Bait had apparently been up all night running up and down the stairs having his own personal shit race, I had slept through it all (my turn to be oblivious). When I got up to go to work, he got up as well and said he'd been up all night. In truth, he didn't look good. I got ready for work and was getting ready to leave. He was sitting there so cute on the toilet, helpless, sickly, sweaty. I said, "I love you, but I'm not touching you or kissing you. I'm not getting this." I continued, "If you shit your pants while I'm at work today, I'm blogging about it."
Shark Bait took a quick shower in hopes he would feel better. I grabbed my pony lunch bag and was giving him one last good-bye when I heard all hell break loose in the bathroom. And when I say "break loose" I do mean that everything, every cell, every particle in his body went ape-shit crazy and came out of his mouth at a velocity that rivaled a fire hose. I didn't know what to do, I didn't want to hear this, but I couldn't just leave him like that. I stepped outside the bathroom and closed my eyes tight. I could still hear him. I started to pace, the puking would not stop. It was horrifying. It seemed like forever and finally he stopped. He staggered out of the bathroom and looked at me, "Aw damn, I got puke on my glasses." That pretty much did it for me. He was safe, I was out of there. I have never been so happy to go to work. He spent a treacherous 24 hours, but lived to tell the tale. Well, he didn't tell the tale as much as I did. I really can't help myself, but as I laid in bed last night, next to my sweaty, gross husband, it just popped in my head, "he thought he beat it, he thought he escaped...just like in Final Destination."
So, in light of my bedtime realization, I tell this story to you as a precautionary tale. Don't fight it. You can't. You see a sick stranger, lick them. Just do it, get it over with, get it out of the way, because when it comes for you, it's angry. Fate gets pissed when you try and escape the inevitable. I mean, I put Emergen-C in my protein shake every day and take my vitamins, but I already had this in epic 2006. The circle is finally complete. The last victim, the last "sacrifice" has paid the price.
Dear flu of 2015, go in peace.
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