Of Sickness and Death

It has been an interesting three weeks featuring all kinds of run-ins with sickness and death.

So there I was a few weeks ago, racked with unrelenting stomach pain for three hours straight, essentially dying of death. This landed me in the ER for a late night visit and a groundbreaking diagnosis: "stomach pain." Thank you, modern medicine. That would have been an informative diagnosis had it not been the exact thing I told you I had when I checked in. A parrot -- or my nieces, when they get in one of those moods where they repeat everything I say -- could have properly diagnosed me under those terms.

I suppose the one positive outcome of going to the ER was that I did get a nice, healthy dose of morphine, which I'm pretty sure is the greatest invention since the printing press (replacing the Snuggie, of course. Coincidentally, both Snuggies and morphine make you all warm). By the next morning, the mystery illness was gone, and I triumphantly declared in an opiate-hazed delirium something along the lines of "Death wanted to play chicken with me, and Death blinked."

Mrs. RoSA: "Yes, dear. Death came knocking at your door, and you slammed the door right in his face."

(These metaphors portraying my active and aggressive triumph over the Grim Reaper are actually to cover up what really took place that night: Me passively and resignedly doubled-over in the fetal position, body spasming, pleading for the sweet, sweet relief of painkillers or the surgical removal of my stomach and both sets of intestines)

I recovered within a few days. As my immune system limped its way to my sister's house for Christmas, however, neither I nor my family had any idea what lay ahead of us. The scariest incident was a grandchild having a finger almost severed in a slammed door, which required attachment at the hospital. But that wasn't the end of it... no, perhaps it was merely an omen of the coming doom that awaited us...

A plague that I can only surmise was the 5th Horseman of the Apocalypse, or some manifestation of the angel of death (perhaps we forgot to put that lamb's blood above the doorpost?), smote the household over the Christmas holiday, leading my brother-in-law Ben to declare 2010 to be "the Christmas of Vomit."

The plague waged war by first manifesting itself via the oldest grandchild, who woke up in the middle of the night (perfectly normal -- I do it all the time to pee), crawled into bed with grandpa and grandma (tender), and proceeded to vomit on the latter (perhaps not so normal). This was merely the first volley fired by the illness. Eventually, we were pretty much all toppled by the disease throughout the week, one by one -- pick your domino effect/chain reaction analogy, really, and it illustrates what happened. I'm personally going to go with the Pie-eating contest scene in Stand By Me, where the first contestant vomits, which causes another contestant to vomit, and then the audience to vomit, etc -- Only time-lapse the scene so it lasts over four or five days. This is basically what happened.

By day two most of us knew, deep down, the undeniable and inescapable truth: It was just a matter of time before we were sick. The resignation in the air was palpable. It felled most of the grandchildren with vomiting and most of the adults with flu aches and lack of appetite.

But we all survived. And aside from the whole health thing, it was a great holiday. Family time. Kids opening presents. Kids running around and sassing adults. Good food. True Grit. Ben trapping five mice in a single night (It was like watching some combination of the Predator and Bear Grylls practice their trade. Awe-inspiring). Some Call of Duty on PS3.

Mrs. RoSA (walking into the TV room and seeing me playing Call of Duty): "Oh-- well isn't it encouraging to find my husband engaged in bloodsport once again."