Call Me Ick Fish

I was going to include a pic of myself
but the sight of me would leave you
washing your hands the rest of the day.

I’m sick. I’m not exactly sure what I have, but I’d say it’s the human equivalent of Ick. You know that thing that fish get, and that little cloud of affliction that attaches to them? They just swim around and drag it along. Other fish swim toward them slowly as if maybe they are going to talk to them, “oh, hey, Steve, how are you…what the?” Then they dart around them at the last second, their one eye following the pariah as they go. And when the Ick fish is at a safe distance, the healthy fish turn around. They gather up in a little school, stand around the coolest one's locker and watch poor Ick fish swim away, dragging its little filth plume. Poor Ick fish.

I am Ick fish. Except I can’t get my family to avoid me. I wish they would. They continually ask me for stuff and when I say, “I am sorry, I cannot, for I am sick,” they kindly allow me more time to do whatever it was they wanted. Meanwhile, they act like dogs who have escaped their kennel and have free reign of an empty house. The house isn’t empty of course, they see me. They just know I’m too icky to complain. They strow clothes, toys, rocks (yes, rocks) all over. There are crumbs on the kitchen table and a few action figures that were included in the kid’s meal bag. That’s what they eat I don’t cook. My family has a whole Speed mentality toward the stove as if Dennis Hopper has rigged it to explode if it’s turned on. 

Mind you, in the midst of my sickness, my daughter has vomited. It was 4:00AM. I was sleeping upstairs in the guest bedroom, wrapped in my cocoon of Ick and she woke me up. I’m not sure what she said. But, later I got up to go get something to eat and heard her crying. Her tummy wasn’t well. I sat with her for a while and she said she needed to vomit. I ran downstairs to get a bowl. We aren’t toilet pukers. That’s on me. If I’m sick, the last thing I want to do is stare down into the belly of the porcelain beast. I’ve never understood why people do that. Sure, it’s an easy clean up but, come on. Your excrement goes there. That’s disgusting. If I’m already constitutionally compromised and things are about to erupt, I’m not going to add insult to injury by sticking my face into a dung receptacle. I don’t care how many scrubbing bubbles have happily surfed around in there. Anyway, I got a bowl in time. She let fly like a fireman’s hose. Poor thing. Pretty sure it was something she ate. She felt better immediately.

Whenever I am sick, somebody else ALWAYS gets sick. I hate that. And whomever it is gets to hole up in their bed like a squirrel while I continue about. Me and my Ick cloud, whom I shall call Sir Crudmore of Grossenstein. Now, I will say that unlike most sane people, I don’t stay in bed when I am sick. I hate lying in bed. So, part of the onus is on me. But, I shouldn’t have to walk about the house shouting, “unclean, unclean,” to be given a break. AND, if I do go to bed and stay there, things will just fall into greater disrepair. If I stayed there all day, the house would never recover. There’d be no coming back. We’d just have to torch the place and start over.  

At some point, we will shower, Sir Crudmore and I, then haul ourselves to the Minute Clinic. (I wonder how the CVS would react if I came in yelling, “unclean, unclean!”) I will get whatever rx required to abate this vile blight and grab a few packs of EmergenC while I’m at it. On that note, have you tried that stuff? It’s awful. The taste gives you a convulsive response. Of course you feel better after drinking it! You feel completely stricken while trying to choke it down. Finishing the glass is a relief not unlike when you finish throwing up. So, why am I taking it? Well, anything that tastes that bad has to be killing something off. That’s how I see it.

For now however, it’s Sunday morning, 9:30, we aren’t at church and I’m in yesterday’s pajamas. One side of my nose is a fount of viscous slime, the other is filled with adobe and my stomach is making sounds I’ve only ever heard before from a large drain. I would venture to guess I smell like I look. I reckon I’ll eat some soup - that I made for myself yesterday - and go back to bed. I wish I had a baboon to stand sentinel at the door but locking it is the best I can do. Which will only make the little ones knock and my husband call me on my cell phone. (BTW, if you are feeling bad for my little one that threw up, don’t. She’s completely fine and has been laying in bed watching Netflix since 4:15AM. And, since she did throw up, she’ll most likely be spoiled the rest of the day. It doesn’t hurt her case that she’s ridiculously cute walking around in one of her daddy's tshirts that goes past her knees and her bed head. She knows what she's doing. Well played little padawan. The force is strong with you.)

Farewell good land of health. I will now, with Sir Crudmore, my trusty cloud of repulsiveness, bid you adieu, achoo, and ew. I need to get a nap before noon at which point my family will probably stand over me and stare at me until I feed them. Hopefully I will be able to to keep the stove driving at 55 mph so it won't blow up.