pumpkin-pukingSaturday night, Tom and I sat in bed and ate mixed nuts that were “a little off.”  Tom asked, “Are these nuts rancid?” 

I took some.  “Tastes good to me,” I said. 

Ask a dieting woman if something is rancid, and she will lie her face off. 

We ate the nuts.

I awoke at four in the morning with a wretched roiling in my nether regions.  I sat up in bed.  Tom lay groaning next to me, complaining of nausea and bowel distress.

“I don’t feel so good either,” I said, feeling an urgent need for a toilet.   I sat down to relieve my distress when I realized I also needed to vomit, which I did in the wastepaper can.  On the way back to bed I threw up in the sink.

Tom and I took turns running to and from the bathroom and then lay exhausted and sweaty in the great white marital bed, nauseated to our hair follicles.

“Do I have a fever?” He asked me.  What kind of annoying question was that to ask a wife suffering as I was suffering?

“No, you don’t have a fever!” I shot back.  Was he trying to out suffer me?

“I think I have a fever,” he said.

“You don’t have a fever.” I snarled. I touched his cold arm.  “You have a minus-temperature.”

I’m sure it is one of the rules of marriage that the members making up a couple cannot be sick at the same time.  There must be a designated soother, a designated nurse.

Neither Tom nor I was up for the job.

Then we ran out of toilet paper.

“Call for help,” I said.  “We must be dehydrated. I think I’m dying.  I hope I’m dying. 

Later, Charles (third son) arrived with Gatorade, bananas, soda crackers, bread, chocolate pudding, and toilet paper, which he set on the porch, not wanting to catch whatever it was we had. 

Not only did he save our lives, he saved the marriage.  Did you know that in birth-order theory, the third child actually does save the marriage?    Thought you’d want to know.

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