On Sunday, my husband poisoned me. He didn't mean to do it, but he did it just the same. We were making bacon, eggs and potatoes for breakfast when we realized we didn't have an onion. So, Erik says, "I think there's one in the garden," and out he went to forage through the dirt. He came back in with what looked like an overgrown green onion. He diced the bulb, threw it in with the potatoes and that was that. I'm new to this gardening thing, so it felt kind of neat to procure a needed food item in the backyard instead of having to hop in the car and drive a mile to the nearest Kroeger.
But, and I'm sad to say there is a but, about ten minutes after consuming our tasty breakfast, Erik looks at me with a worried expression and says, "I don't feel so good." I'll spare you the details and just say his body rejected the perfectly crisp bacon and everything else he'd eaten that morning. Right after he exited the bathroom, it was my turn.
I was convinced we had a stomach bug, since one is going around, but after the initial "incident," we were fine. No fever, no aches or pains, no more technicolor heaving. Plus, our kids weren't sick and neither of them at the potatoes and we did.
The night before last, I awoke to the sound of my daughter throwing up. She walked in my room to announce this fact. I think I said, "I'm sorry. Put a trashcan by your bed." I feel like a horrible parent. I made it up to her yesterday with the whole, wet wash cloth, cracker and chicken broth routine. So, now I'm not so sure if it was the onion, if indeed it really was an onion or just something masquerading as one.
I feel queasy today. It could be I'm sick. Or it could be I'm jonesing for nicotine. Or it could be that panic is setting in. I have eleven days to finish.
But, I wrote something and that's a start.