Regular Life

Last week I had my most memorable morning of being sick.

First, I left work Tuesday morning due to a distinct inability to stay out of the bathroom for more than 10 minutes. Shannon went out and bought some Sprite while I kept Ben and myself alive. That afternoon and evening were a blur of stomach cramps and Emetrol, ending with a 9 p.m. bedtime.

I called into work Wednesday after my stomach made it obvious it wasn’t going to let me do anything productive. Shannon had a play-date with some other moms and their kids, so she hustled around getting herself and Ben ready while I divided my time between the bed and the bathroom.

The rest of my day promised to be a haze of trying to stay comfortable while watching episodes of Seinfeld’s first season. My brother and his wife had surprised me with seasons 1-3 on DVD for Christmas.

About 10 minutes after she left, Shannon called me with some bad news. “I thought the minivan would have enough gas to make it to the nearest gas station, but it didn’t. Some street workers helped push it into a parking lot.”

I knew exactly what all this meant. I was going to drag my sick self out of bed and rescue my damsel in distress. Didn’t want to, really. But I was glad to.

“I thought maybe you could bring the gas can. I know you’re sick, and I hate to ask you to do this.”

So, I pulled on a sweatshirt and my cap, grabbed the gas can, and drove to find her. There the minivan sat, in front of a newly constructed strip mall. Ben smiled at me through the window glass as I poured the can’s contents into the tank.

“So, this will get me to the gas station? Do you need to follow me?”

“No, I’ll just make sure it starts before I leave, but you’ll make it just fine.” It did, and she did.

Back at the house, I let the dog out in the backyard and went back to my routine. About 10 minutes later, I realized she hadn’t barked to come back in. I also remembered that Shannon sometimes puts a full kitchen trash bag on the back step.

Oh no, not today, please.

When I threw open the back door, I saw trash strewn in about a five-foot circle. In the center of it was my faithful cocker spaniel — the first purebred dog I’ve had since I was 10 years old — her head buried in a trash bag, rooting around like some starving stray. On wobbly legs I took the few steps to her and grabbed her collar. Although she’s stone deaf (good old purebreds), I still yelled something like, “Get out of there, now!”

I cleaned up the trash and carried the bag to the outdoor can.

Finally, I could concentrate on resting. That’s exactly what I did, occasionally ingesting Sprite and Zesta crackers to test my nausea’s limits. The covered wagon medicine man has nothing on Sprite.

My inspiration for writing all this was not my wife’s blunder, but what she did later. That’s the part that’s really worth telling.

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