My son was sick the other night.
He fell asleep around eight thirty that evening then woke up around ten, moaning with a sore tummy.
Aaron and I sat by his side as his plaintive moaning turned to really loud moaning. We had to shut his window. He also couldn’t lie still. He insisted on lying on the floor beside his wastebasket. Aaron asked him where it hurt, how it hurt. The pains were sharp and uneven and right centred on his tummy. It didn’t seem to be appendicitis.
So let me say: I felt horrible seeing my boy in pain and so uncomfortable. I believed he was in pain. I wanted to help him be better.
Now that I’ve said that, let me say this: My son wins the fucking Oscar for that performance. It wasn’t all pretend but it certainly was melodramatic.
Things he said as the sharp pains continued:
“It’s never going to stop!”
“It hurts so much!”
“Please let me die!”
“I wish I was dead!”
“It’s NEVER going to end!”
There were a lot of OWWWWWWWs and ARRGHHHHHs.
As time crept by, he felt the need to remain on the floor but with his head INSIDE his plastic wastebasket.
He also made a few trips to the washroom, bent over like Mr. Burns. He came back, unsuccessful in his attempt to have a bowel movement.
Other things he moaned loudly:
“I’m NEVER going to throw up!”
“Why can’t I barf?”
“Why does this have to happen to MEEEEEEEEEEE?!!”
I suggested a hot water bottle and while Aaron prepared it downstairs, I rubbed my son’s back. He started to drift off to sleep and when Aaron came back, we smiled at each other.
I placed the water bottle gently on my son’s tummy, he immediately sat up and said really quickly:
“I need the wastebasket!”
Then he threw everything up into the wastebasket. Afterward, he lay back, sang me a song about his white teddy, giggled and fell asleep.
My ears rang with the sudden silence in the room. It was quarter to twelve. Aaron and I looked at each other, stunned and tired.
My son was fine the next day.
We figured it was some kind of food poisoning as we both felt fine and our daughter was painlessly snoring a storm the entire time in her room.
My husband thinks maybe our son needs to wash his hands better.Print