51
claire
That night, the door creaks slightly as someone creeps into the bedroom. In the pitch-black darkness I sense movement beside the bed and I climb toward wakefulness.
“Who’s there?” I ask groggily.
“Mommy, I don’t feel good,” Jordan says.
I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed, gathering her in my arms. Pushing her hair back, I lay my cheek on her forehead. She feels feverish. I pull her into the bed and lay her head gently down on the pillow. “I’ll be right back. Mommy’s going to get some medicine, okay?”
She moans softly. “Okay.”
I keep our drugs in the kitchen, on a cupboard shelf up high and out of reach. I’m relieved when I spot a half-full bottle of Children’s Motrin and I hurry upstairs. Jordan squeezes her eyes shut when I turn on the lamp that sits on my nightstand.
“I’ll turn it off as soon as you take this,” I say, measuring out a dose and holding the medicine cup to her lips.
“Is it bubble gum?” she asks, as I help her sit up. “I don’t like the purple kind.”
“Yes,” I answer.
She swallows the pink liquid and lies back down, flopping listlessly onto the pillow.
“Does your head hurt? Or your throat?” I ask.
“My head,” she says. “And my tummy.”
Uh-oh. I grab the garbage can from the bathroom and put it beside the bed. I turn off the light and stretch out next to her, pulling the covers over both of us. “It’ll take a little while for the medicine to kick in,” I say, stroking her hair. “You can stay with me, okay?”
“Okay.”
I hold her until her breathing deepens and I think she’s almost asleep, but then she sits bolt upright and I have just enough time to get the garbage can underneath her before she vomits. Jordan hates to puke more than anything, and she starts to cry.
“It’s okay, baby,” I say, as I lead her into the bathroom and fill a cup with water so she can rinse out her mouth. “Feel better?”
“Yeah,” she says.
“Maybe now you can rest.”
We crawl back into bed, and I hold her until we both drift off to sleep.
In the morning, I let her sleep while I make Josh’s breakfast. I tell him his sister will be staying home and at eight I walk him to the bus stop.
“Where’s Jordan?” Elisa asks.
“Stomach flu. I think she might be running a low-grade temp, too. Her forehead was pretty warm this morning.” I glance over my shoulder at my house, nervous at leaving her inside. If she wakes up, she’ll wonder where I am.
“Poor thing,” Elisa says. “Go home. Julia and I will make sure Josh gets on the bus.”
“Thanks.”
Jordan is still sleeping, sprawled out in the middle of the king-size bed. I let her be and check my phone. There’s a text from Daniel.
Good morning. What do you have planned for today?
I text him back. Jordan isn’t feeling well. I might not get much of anything done, other than keeping her comfortable.
He responds a few minutes later. That’s too bad. Hope she feels better soon.
I also text Chris. Jordan has the stomach flu. I kept her home today. I don’t get a response because he’s undoubtedly in the middle of a presentation or a meeting. He’ll respond when he can. He always does eventually, especially if it’s in regard to the kids.
Jordan wakes around 10:00 A.M. and doesn’t want anything to eat. Her forehead feels hot and she says she’s achy, so I give her another dose of Motrin and convince her to try some cold apple juice. She drinks half the juice and settles back down on the pillow, her eyes glassy. I turn on the TV, find a station playing cartoons, and take a quick shower, leaving the bathroom door open in case she calls out to me. The Motrin must have kicked in because when I come out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, she’s sleeping soundly again.
Daniel calls at noon. “How’s Jordan doing?” he asks.
“She kept down her apple juice and she’s sleeping now.”
“Do you need anything?”
I’m running a little low on Motrin, but I don’t want Daniel stopping by in the middle of the day. Elisa probably has an extra bottle, and if she doesn’t, she’ll gladly pick some up for me. “No. Thanks for asking, though.” I lean over and brush Jordan’s hair off her forehead, still blissfully cool. “I’ll keep her home again tomorrow if she’s still running a fever.”
“I hope she feels better.”
“She’ll be fine. It’s probably just a virus.”
“I’ll text you later,” he says.
“Okay.”
I bring my laptop upstairs and plug it into the outlet behind my nightstand. I tap away while Jordan sleeps. She stirs around three thirty, sits straight up, and vomits all over the bed. I scoop her into my arms and run toward the bathroom, holding her hair back as she dry-heaves into the toilet. Her forehead sizzles. I can tell when my children have a fever just by touching their skin, but I wipe her mouth, lay her down on the dry side of the bed, and rush downstairs to grab the ear thermometer. I gently insert the tip into Jordan’s ear and when it beeps I’m relieved to see that it’s only 102. I can handle that.
The vomiting and the fever have worn her out and she remains listless while I strip the sheets and comforter out from under her, balling them up so I can transport everything to the laundry room without making a huge mess. I retrieve her purple fleece blanket from her room and lay it gently over her, tucking it around her shoulders. Grabbing my phone from the nightstand, I thumb through my contacts and call Elisa.
“Can you get Josh from the bus stop?” I ask. “And do you by chance have any Children’s Motrin?”
“I’m guessing Jordan still isn’t feeling well,” she says. “How’s the fever?”
“It’s still high and she just puked again. Spectacularly. She’s miserable.”
“I’ll let Josh know what’s up, and I’ll send the Motrin home with him.”
“Thanks.”
I text Chris to give him an update on Jordan. He responds five minutes later with a phone call.
“Is she okay?” he asks when I answer, and I hear the concern in his voice.
“She’s better now. I’m going to try and keep her hydrated and comfortable until this runs its course.”
“I need to get back into my meeting. Let me know how she’s doing, okay?”
“Okay.”
A door slams downstairs and moments later Josh barrels into the room. “Is Jordan still sick, Mom?” he asks, thrusting a bottle of Motrin into my hands and flopping down on the bed.
“Yes, and she has some sort of stomach bug, so keep your distance,” I warn.
He scoots away from Jordan and then puts even more space between them by climbing off of the bed and heading toward the bedroom door. “I’m gonna go play with Travis, okay?”
“Backyard only. I don’t want you in front since I can’t be out there with you. Be home by six.”
“Okay,” he says.
I pick up Jordan and carefully navigate the stairs. The couch in the family room will have to do so I can make dinner and still keep an eye on her.
I urge Jordan to try some 7Up and saltines. She makes a valiant attempt but stops after two small sips and a tiny nibble of the cracker. I don’t blame her; better safe than sorry where the stomach is concerned.
I pop in a Disney DVD and run upstairs to put clean sheets and an old comforter on the bed. I return with the soiled bedding and start a load in the washing machine. Dinner will consist of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, I decide. Though it’s more of a winter meal, both kids enjoy it and it’s easy to prepare.
Josh comes in as I’m setting the table. He pulls out a chair and drops into it. “I’m starving,” he says.
“Go wash your hands first.”
He protests but scrapes his chair back and washes up at the kitchen sink. I set a grilled cheese sandwich on his plate and sprinkle goldfish crackers into his soup. He smiles. He notices the can of 7Up on the counter. “Can I have some pop, too?”
“Yes, since it’s open. I don’t think your sister is up for it.” I pour the remainder of the can into his glass.
I give Jordan more Motrin. She declines my offer of dinner, but a half hour later, when the medicine has kicked in, she manages a few more crackers and drinks some 7Up. I start to relax and pray we’re over the hump.
Daniel calls when the kids and I are in the middle of a movie so I let it go to voice mail. I call him back later, when both kids are in bed and I’ve texted Chris with an update and climbed between my clean sheets. “How’s it going? Is Jordan feeling any better?”
“A little.” I bring him up to speed on her symptoms.
“Let me know if you need me to bring you anything, okay?”
“I will.”
We say goodnight and I watch TV for a while. At 10:00 P.M. I check on the kids one more time. Josh’s legs are tangled in his sheets and his head hangs halfway off the bed. I rearrange him and pull the covers up. Jordan’s forehead feels cool and her breathing is deep and steady.
I turn out the hallway lights, go to the bathroom one last time, and climb into bed, happy to put this day behind me.
All hell breaks loose in the middle of the night. Jordan’s cries wake me, and I rush to her bedroom. She’s heaving into the garbage can I put next to her bed, just in case. Her stomach doesn’t have much in it, so it isn’t long before the vomiting subsides. I should have known this wasn’t over.
I help her into the bathroom and wipe her face. She rinses her mouth out when I hand her a Dixie cup of water, swishing and spitting. I’m just about to walk her back to bed when Josh runs through the doorway and barfs at our feet, spraying us both. The sight and smell of all that tomato soup in reverse triggers my gag reflex, and it’s only sheer will that keeps me from spontaneously emptying the contents of my own stomach.
I move Jordan out of the way and position Josh’s head over the toilet. Reaching over, I turn on the shower and strip off Jordan’s nightgown. Once I settle her under the spray I rub Josh’s back and wait until he’s finished. I flush the toilet and close the lid. “Sit here,” I say. I pull back the shower curtain and make sure Jordan is clean, then wrap her in a fluffy towel. “Get in the shower, Josh. I’m going to take Jordan to her room.” He nods his head and strips off his pajama shirt. Jordan is almost asleep by the time I tuck her in. I quickly clean the bathroom floor, pull the puke-filled plastic liner out of her garbage can, and walk it down to the garage.
Josh is out of the shower and standing in the hallway, wrapped in a towel.
“Let’s get some clean pajamas,” I say.
He follows me into his room. I place the back of my hand against his forehead, but he’s only a little warm. I decide to hold off on the Motrin in case he’s not done vomiting. “Do you think you can go back to sleep?” I ask.
He nods and I give him a quick hug. He’ll want privacy to change, so I tell him to come get me if he feels sick again.
I strip off my own clothes in the master bathroom and take a quick shower. My laundry pile will be astronomical tomorrow, but I’ll worry about that in the morning. Clean and dry, I burrow under the covers and fall asleep. I awaken a while later and glance at the clock: 4:00 A.M.
My stomach churns and I have just enough time to sprint toward the bathroom before everything comes up.
• • •
In the morning, the kids are lethargic and feverish but I’m temporarily spared more vomiting because neither of them will eat. I don’t blame them. I force down what I have to in order to keep my blood sugar steady and wait to see if it was a bad idea. I throw it right back up. I text Chris to give him an update on the kids and he writes back expressing his concern and asking me to keep him posted.
Daniel texts me a short time later. How is everything going?
We’re all sick now. I’m placing our house under quarantine.
He texts back immediately. Is there anything I can do?
No thanks. We’ll be fine. It just has to run its course.
The kids and I spend the day cuddled together on the large sectional in the family room. The washing machine runs around the clock because the vomiting has resumed and Josh and Jordan do not always grab the garbage can or make it to the bathroom in time. Around 8:00 P.M., I tuck the kids into bed and hope they both sleep through the night.
I feel awful. I can’t keep anything down, so I have to keep adjusting my insulin. I’m so incredibly thirsty but the water comes right back up when I try to drink it. I haven’t eaten anything in almost twenty-four hours. It’s been years since I had the stomach flu, and I’ve forgotten how miserable it can be.
When I walk downstairs Tucker is standing by the front door, waiting for me to let him out. I open it and notice the bag sitting on the front steps. Curious, I open it up and spot a six-pack of Diet 7Up, saltines, and a bottle of Children’s Motrin. I smile because I know who left it.
I send Daniel a text. Thank you.
He responds five minutes later. You’re welcome.
I won’t be able to come tomorrow. I’m sorry.
That’s okay. Just take care of yourself. I’ll see you when you’re feeling better.
By the time Chris walks in the door the following evening, the kids are over the worst of it. He finds them sprawled on the couch, eating crackers and sipping juice, Disney Channel blaring.
He gives them a hug, smoothing back Jordan’s hair and squeezing Josh’s shoulder. “You guys feeling better?” he asks.
They answer in unison, “Yes.”
Chris looks over at me. I’m barely holding my eyes open because I haven’t slept more than a few hours at a time in the last twenty-four.
“You look really tired, Claire.”
I nod. It takes all the energy I have.
He peers at me closely, realization dawning on his face. “Did you have it, too?”
“Yes.” I still have it. I haven’t been able to eat anything today and my raging thirst drives me to drink even though I know it will only come right back up.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.
I answer honestly. “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t think there was any way you could come home.” Now that I know the kind of scrutiny Chris is under, I’m more sympathetic to the amount of work he’s responsible for. “I would have called my mom if I couldn’t handle it.” I can tell by his expression that the words hurt a little.
He sighs, blowing out a breath as he looks around the living room. “There are more important things than work,” he says softly. He loosens his tie and sits down on the couch next to Jordan, stroking her hair. He looks at me. “Go lie down.”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I go upstairs and slip under the covers, but thirty seconds later I hurry to the bathroom because I have to throw up again. After I rinse my mouth I fill a cup at the bathroom sink and drink it down, trying desperately to quench my thirst. My lips are cracked and the inside of my mouth is so dry I can barely swallow. I just want to drink, drink, drink until I can’t hold any more. My digestive system rejects the water almost immediately and I throw up in the sink. After I wipe my mouth with a towel I sink to the floor, resting my head against the bathroom wall, breathing rapidly. I pull out my pump and check my blood glucose. I blink because there’s no way that number is right. It’s way too high.
I tell myself that I have to stand up, to find the strength to walk downstairs and let Chris know that something is really wrong.