Archives of Our Lives

Last night I woke up to the sounds of my husband heaving.

Actually, I woke up before he started puking, because he was coughing quite noisily (likely what led to his unfortunate wee-hours-of-the-morning gagfest—sometimes he coughs so hard he accidentally pukes).

It makes sense that I woke up before he started throwing up, because I’ve never heard a person vomit as quietly as my husband.

Where I come from (a family with a history of histrionics), the only way to get any sort of sympathy (in the form of purple Gatorade and a free pass to lay in bed reading books all day) from being sick is by throwing up. And the only way to guarantee said sympathy from throwing up is to make sure everybody hears you throwing up.

So when we throw up, we do it loud. With gusto. BLEAHCH!

But I guess Poor Kyle’s family had different rules—maybe they were shamed from throwing up (heaven knows his mother is the master of inflicting shame), or maybe no amount of noisy heaving would allow them to stay home from school. I don’t know, I only pretend to be a good psychologist.

Whatever the reasons behind it, my husband throws up very quietly.

The first time I heard him throw up, I wasn’t sure if he was really throwing up or if he just had a bad case of liquidy poo from all that watermelon he’d eaten. The vagueness of the situation was kind of awkward for me (we had only been married a couple of months, you see); I didn’t know quite how to respond.

I mean, if he was throwing up, I knew exactly what to do: knock gently on the door, ask if he’s still conscious, if there’s anything I can get for him, and when he refuses, promptly prepare a warm washcloth to put on his forehead when he emerges and crawls back into bed. Later, make up a slice of toast with a little bit of butter and a cool (but not ice cold) glass of water. Later still, bring a tray to him in bed with a bowl of chicken soup (Lipton’s from a package, it’s the only kind that will do) and another glass of water plus two Vitamin C tablets and whatever other medicine he might agree to take. At some point, leave the house in sweatpants to buy a bottle of purple Gatorade.

Repeat until healed. (I should’ve been a nurse, I know.)

However. If it wasn’t vomit I’d just heard sloshing around from behind the bathroom door, but squirty poo instead, it would be really uncomfortable for me to knock on the door and ask my husband if he was okay, like, “Hi, Honey, it’s just me, and I’m just wondering if you are still conscious despite that massive load you just let loose.”

Y’know? Awkward.

Finally, though, my histrionic history got the best of me, and I had to know if he was all right. So after hovering by the bathroom door listening for signs of life (noting the occasional spit, indicating vomit aftershocks), I began my routine.

Are you okay? Did you throw up? Do you need me to get anything for you? Do you feel better? Do you think you’re sick or was it just something you ate? And so on and so forth.

Last night at 3:30 a.m. was no different. As I heard my husband’s cough grow more and more violent, my half-dazed mind was nevertheless conscious enough to think, “He’s gonna blow.”

And blow he did.

It just kept coming, and I felt so bad for him. (I feel bad for anyone who’s throwing up {never bad enough to wish it was me instead of them…just bad enough to wish it weren’t happening at all.})

When the worst of it was over, I asked in my most sympathetic voice, “Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

“No,” he said in that groany kind of voice that was actually shouting, “HELLS YES, WOMAN, I NEED A PURPLE GATORADE!”

I stumbled from bed, momentarily getting caught in the twisted sheets and tripping on the pillow I’d dropped to the floor on my side of the bed hours before. Heading to the kitchen, I opted to leave the lights off for the sanctity of my dreams, which might be preserved if I could remain half-asleep long enough to make it back to them, my dear old friends.

I felt my way around the kitchen, gathering all the necessities for a proper Heal My Husband kit: glass of water, nighttime Tylenol Cold and Flu, a couple of cough drops, and Vick’s Vapor Rub. (He refused all but the hard drugs, by the way.)

After dutifully administering to the sick and afflicted with as much sympathy as I could muster (really no small task considering I always assume he’s gotten sick by some negligence of his own, like not wearing socks when lurking around in the drafty basement, or forgoing a healthy, nutrient-packed lunch in favour of two vending machine Cokes and a chocolate bar for desert), I rolled back into bed and tried to recapture the remains of my dreams…

…something about finding a free gallon of milk in my mailbox sent by an anonymous donor (so thoughtful).

But all was lost. Not only could I not find my lost dreams, but I couldn’t even get back to sleep.

A few hours later, as I watched the red projected digital clock on our ceiling switch from 5:59 to 6:00, I thought to myself, “How on earth do women do this with two children? I can barely manage with the one.”