The Great Family Plague of Thanksgiving '11.
When a large group experiences something profound and moving together, it brings them together. It bonds them. It ties them together, forever connected by that event. Thanksgiving a year ago, Patrick, myself, and bunch of his family bonded over such an event. This is that tale.
This time last year, on bright and cheery Saturday, the weekend before Thanksgiving, Patrick and I hightailed it to Jacksonville to celebrate the 60th birthday of Patrick's Aunt Donna.
Donna's oldest daughter Dana and her husband Henry have an adorable son who, at the time, was about 18 months old. The party was to be at their house, and that's also where we were to bunk down for the night. Upon arrival, we hugged Dana and Henry hello and got as much sugar as Baby J would allow us. He was just getting over being sick, so we didn't want to bother him too much.
Throughout the afternoon, we did our best to help the hosts prepare (although they had it pretty well under control). Mostly, we just enjoyed spending time hanging out with them. We chatted. We shared a few drinks. A few others came over to help set up. As the time drew nigh, the tables were put up, the food was set out, and the bar was prepared. We just had to wait for the fun to start.
And boy did the fun start. As the sun went down, the guests began to arrive. The radio was cranked up and, at its height, we had a swinging party of 25-30 people (not to be confused with a swingers party--NEVER to be confused for a swingers party). Lots of Aunt Donna's family and a good bunch of friends showed up to blast the roof off the house in her honor. The food was good, the drinks were flowing, and the company was great. It was a long, fun night of celebrating.
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The next morning, I woke early. Why, oh why, when one has stayed up too late and had a few drinks too many, must one start waking up at 6a.m.? It wasn't even light yet. But the dull thud in my head would not be ignored. I sneaked out of bed, got some Tylenol and a bottle of water, and slipped back into bed to drift back into a truly un-restful sleep.
An hour or so later, I was awake again. This time the sun was up. (And boy, was that sun bright. Too bright. Please, hurry, close the blinds.) I heard Patrick up and moving around, and I heard something else. It was Baby J in the nursery next to our room, saying... something. I got up and walked out to see Patrick opening Baby J's nursery door.
I was then able to hear clearly what he was saying. Talking directly to his baby monitor, this adorable child was saying, "Dana. Milk. Help. Dana. Milk. Help. Milk. Dana." On repeat. It couldn't have been any more adorable or funny.
Clearly, this kid needed some help getting some ice cold milk, so Patrick picked him up out of his crib and we both go to the kitchen to get the little dude his drink.
A moment later Henry comes out. Henry was feeling pretty fresh since he didn't indulge like the rest of us did the night before. He takes over Baby J's breakfast and gets some coffee going.
God, bless Henry for the coffee.
Then, eventually, Dana got up. She was feeling rather worse than any of us. Henry found this funny in a twisted way, and picked on her mercilessly all morning. Henry is a man that loves his wife, but he's not above needling her. Dana took it, for the most part, good-naturedly. Well, with as good a nature as one can have when they feel like they slept with cotton balls packed into their cheeks like a greedy squirrel in Autumn and a wood clamp attached to their head.
Not that I know that feeling.
We ate breakfast and spent a very lazy morning, not sitting on the couches, but draped over them like worn out, wet blankets. Henry kept picking on Dana and she refuted that she was sick, not hungover. The natural response to that is, "Of course you're sick. When you party like that, you're going to be sick!"
Dana clarified for us, "Okay. I'm not saying I'm not hungover. But I'm also sick."
But then, we see she really is feeling bad. She'd gotten up and hurried to the bathroom to throw up a few times. "Must be one heck of a hangover," we are saying to ourselves. "Maybe she really is sick. Do you think?" It was early afternoon, and clearly she wasn't well whether it was an epic hangover or not, so Patrick and I packed, said our goodbyes, wished Dana to feel better, and headed back for Tallahassee...
...Unaware of what were to confront later that night.
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It was during our drive back from Jacksonville that Sunday afternoon that the sense of impending doom began to loom large before Patrick and me.
A series of texts, escalating in seriousness, came from Dana. The first to tell Patrick and me that after a morning of picking on Dana about her hangover, Henry was now having some extremely serious stomach issues. Another, obviously to a group of the party-goers, saying that it seemed several people were sick. Another, to tell us that, for several people, it starts with pain in the lower back--Patrick had been experiencing abnormal pain in his lower back--and turns into vicious vomiting and diarrhea. Another, to tell us that Baby J's babysitter's kids had experienced these symptoms, Baby J had just gotten over similar symptoms, and it seemed to be a truly heinous and extremely contagious stomach bug spreading like wildfire among those exposed to it.
Patrick and I were understandably worried, but I hoped maybe I'd actually miss this mess. My back wasn't hurting at all. But Patrick wasn't taking any chances. We went to a nearby pharmacy to stock up on ginger ale, gator ade, Pepto and Emetrol and, I think, some crackers and hurried back home. We prepared a fairly bland meal of grits and scrambled eggs. If we're going to possibly have to have something come back up, we don't want to eat salsa or steak or anything too heavy.
About 8:30 that night, we went to the bedroom, changed into our PJs, and then crawled into bed. But we did not sleep; we sat. Waiting. No TV. No music. Just sitting and waiting for the sickness to hit. Shortly after, I began to feel some uncomfortable twinges in my stomach, and my mouth began to fill with saliva.
Patrick was also beginning to feel it. This. Was. Not. Good.
By about 9:00, it had begun in earnest. I don't remember who got sick first, and I won't go into the most disgusting details, but suffice it to say that retching for hours while having explosive... well, you get the idea... is not fun. I'd never been that sick in my life, and it was certainly in Patrick's Top 5 Most Nasty Bouts. For the next six hours, we took turns running to the bathrooms.
I'd like to take a moment to thank the Lord that we decided to get a place with two bathrooms instead of just one. Dear God, thank you for guiding us to the 2/2 instead of the 2/1, without which, we would have had to share the a single bathroom during our night of misery, becoming intimate in a way that no one ever hopes to be. Love, Rebecca
But back to the story.
Patrick was miserable. I was, possibly, even worse. His trips down to the hall bathroom had become less frequent, but I was still getting up every 20-30 minutes. He'd started to say perhaps I should go to the ER. I had never been to the ER for something like this, maybe never at all, and was very hesitant. Finally, near 3a.m., when I almost couldn't see the bed to get back in it because I was so lightheaded was I finally convinced that I needed to go.
Armed with a towel in the seat and a garbage can between my legs, Patrick, in his weak, sick, and exhausted state, drove me to the hospital and helped me get admitted. Five hours, some anti-nausea medication, and three full bags of saline solution later, I was released and went back home. It was 8:00, Monday morning.
Obviously, we called in to work sick.
We spent the next few days recovering and getting our strength back. We heard from various family members and learned that nearly everyone who had been at Aunt Donna's party had gotten varying degrees of what we were now calling The Plague. I think, in the end, it turned out only two people at the party escaped unscathed.
We saw a few of family members who came to Perry days later for Thanksgiving. We all took turns talking about the disgusting and graphic details of what each of us experienced. Over the course of the holidays we saw many of the rest of the family. With them, too, did we swap toilet stories like we were exchanging recipes. You pretend not to judge whose is better, but you are subtly trying to one-up each other. Only instead of store-bought vs. homemade chicken stock, we were talking about frequency of throwing up or number of days it took to recover.
And here were are. Tomorrow marks a year to the day of Aunt Donna's "Blowout" Plague Party. I hate that her 60th birthday was overshadowed by stories of blowouts and heaving, but, certainly, it's brought all of us who experienced this together. We're closer now, bonded by a shared family experience. Certainly, it made Donna's birthday one to remember--for all the wrong reasons.
And I'm still not too keen on scrambled eggs.
This time last year, on bright and cheery Saturday, the weekend before Thanksgiving, Patrick and I hightailed it to Jacksonville to celebrate the 60th birthday of Patrick's Aunt Donna.
Donna's oldest daughter Dana and her husband Henry have an adorable son who, at the time, was about 18 months old. The party was to be at their house, and that's also where we were to bunk down for the night. Upon arrival, we hugged Dana and Henry hello and got as much sugar as Baby J would allow us. He was just getting over being sick, so we didn't want to bother him too much.
Throughout the afternoon, we did our best to help the hosts prepare (although they had it pretty well under control). Mostly, we just enjoyed spending time hanging out with them. We chatted. We shared a few drinks. A few others came over to help set up. As the time drew nigh, the tables were put up, the food was set out, and the bar was prepared. We just had to wait for the fun to start.
And boy did the fun start. As the sun went down, the guests began to arrive. The radio was cranked up and, at its height, we had a swinging party of 25-30 people (not to be confused with a swingers party--NEVER to be confused for a swingers party). Lots of Aunt Donna's family and a good bunch of friends showed up to blast the roof off the house in her honor. The food was good, the drinks were flowing, and the company was great. It was a long, fun night of celebrating.
---------------------------------------------
The next morning, I woke early. Why, oh why, when one has stayed up too late and had a few drinks too many, must one start waking up at 6a.m.? It wasn't even light yet. But the dull thud in my head would not be ignored. I sneaked out of bed, got some Tylenol and a bottle of water, and slipped back into bed to drift back into a truly un-restful sleep.
An hour or so later, I was awake again. This time the sun was up. (And boy, was that sun bright. Too bright. Please, hurry, close the blinds.) I heard Patrick up and moving around, and I heard something else. It was Baby J in the nursery next to our room, saying... something. I got up and walked out to see Patrick opening Baby J's nursery door.
I was then able to hear clearly what he was saying. Talking directly to his baby monitor, this adorable child was saying, "Dana. Milk. Help. Dana. Milk. Help. Milk. Dana." On repeat. It couldn't have been any more adorable or funny.
Clearly, this kid needed some help getting some ice cold milk, so Patrick picked him up out of his crib and we both go to the kitchen to get the little dude his drink.
A moment later Henry comes out. Henry was feeling pretty fresh since he didn't indulge like the rest of us did the night before. He takes over Baby J's breakfast and gets some coffee going.
God, bless Henry for the coffee.
Then, eventually, Dana got up. She was feeling rather worse than any of us. Henry found this funny in a twisted way, and picked on her mercilessly all morning. Henry is a man that loves his wife, but he's not above needling her. Dana took it, for the most part, good-naturedly. Well, with as good a nature as one can have when they feel like they slept with cotton balls packed into their cheeks like a greedy squirrel in Autumn and a wood clamp attached to their head.
Not that I know that feeling.
We ate breakfast and spent a very lazy morning, not sitting on the couches, but draped over them like worn out, wet blankets. Henry kept picking on Dana and she refuted that she was sick, not hungover. The natural response to that is, "Of course you're sick. When you party like that, you're going to be sick!"
Dana clarified for us, "Okay. I'm not saying I'm not hungover. But I'm also sick."
But then, we see she really is feeling bad. She'd gotten up and hurried to the bathroom to throw up a few times. "Must be one heck of a hangover," we are saying to ourselves. "Maybe she really is sick. Do you think?" It was early afternoon, and clearly she wasn't well whether it was an epic hangover or not, so Patrick and I packed, said our goodbyes, wished Dana to feel better, and headed back for Tallahassee...
...Unaware of what were to confront later that night.
---------------------------------------------
It was during our drive back from Jacksonville that Sunday afternoon that the sense of impending doom began to loom large before Patrick and me.
A series of texts, escalating in seriousness, came from Dana. The first to tell Patrick and me that after a morning of picking on Dana about her hangover, Henry was now having some extremely serious stomach issues. Another, obviously to a group of the party-goers, saying that it seemed several people were sick. Another, to tell us that, for several people, it starts with pain in the lower back--Patrick had been experiencing abnormal pain in his lower back--and turns into vicious vomiting and diarrhea. Another, to tell us that Baby J's babysitter's kids had experienced these symptoms, Baby J had just gotten over similar symptoms, and it seemed to be a truly heinous and extremely contagious stomach bug spreading like wildfire among those exposed to it.
Patrick and I were understandably worried, but I hoped maybe I'd actually miss this mess. My back wasn't hurting at all. But Patrick wasn't taking any chances. We went to a nearby pharmacy to stock up on ginger ale, gator ade, Pepto and Emetrol and, I think, some crackers and hurried back home. We prepared a fairly bland meal of grits and scrambled eggs. If we're going to possibly have to have something come back up, we don't want to eat salsa or steak or anything too heavy.
About 8:30 that night, we went to the bedroom, changed into our PJs, and then crawled into bed. But we did not sleep; we sat. Waiting. No TV. No music. Just sitting and waiting for the sickness to hit. Shortly after, I began to feel some uncomfortable twinges in my stomach, and my mouth began to fill with saliva.
Patrick was also beginning to feel it. This. Was. Not. Good.
By about 9:00, it had begun in earnest. I don't remember who got sick first, and I won't go into the most disgusting details, but suffice it to say that retching for hours while having explosive... well, you get the idea... is not fun. I'd never been that sick in my life, and it was certainly in Patrick's Top 5 Most Nasty Bouts. For the next six hours, we took turns running to the bathrooms.
I'd like to take a moment to thank the Lord that we decided to get a place with two bathrooms instead of just one. Dear God, thank you for guiding us to the 2/2 instead of the 2/1, without which, we would have had to share the a single bathroom during our night of misery, becoming intimate in a way that no one ever hopes to be. Love, Rebecca
But back to the story.
Patrick was miserable. I was, possibly, even worse. His trips down to the hall bathroom had become less frequent, but I was still getting up every 20-30 minutes. He'd started to say perhaps I should go to the ER. I had never been to the ER for something like this, maybe never at all, and was very hesitant. Finally, near 3a.m., when I almost couldn't see the bed to get back in it because I was so lightheaded was I finally convinced that I needed to go.
Armed with a towel in the seat and a garbage can between my legs, Patrick, in his weak, sick, and exhausted state, drove me to the hospital and helped me get admitted. Five hours, some anti-nausea medication, and three full bags of saline solution later, I was released and went back home. It was 8:00, Monday morning.
Obviously, we called in to work sick.
We spent the next few days recovering and getting our strength back. We heard from various family members and learned that nearly everyone who had been at Aunt Donna's party had gotten varying degrees of what we were now calling The Plague. I think, in the end, it turned out only two people at the party escaped unscathed.
We saw a few of family members who came to Perry days later for Thanksgiving. We all took turns talking about the disgusting and graphic details of what each of us experienced. Over the course of the holidays we saw many of the rest of the family. With them, too, did we swap toilet stories like we were exchanging recipes. You pretend not to judge whose is better, but you are subtly trying to one-up each other. Only instead of store-bought vs. homemade chicken stock, we were talking about frequency of throwing up or number of days it took to recover.
And here were are. Tomorrow marks a year to the day of Aunt Donna's "Blowout" Plague Party. I hate that her 60th birthday was overshadowed by stories of blowouts and heaving, but, certainly, it's brought all of us who experienced this together. We're closer now, bonded by a shared family experience. Certainly, it made Donna's birthday one to remember--for all the wrong reasons.
And I'm still not too keen on scrambled eggs.
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