I do not throw up. Okay, wait. That's not entirely true. I've thrown up once in the past 25 years. I had a stomach bug a few years ago, as written in a previous post. But, I did manage to make it through my 21st birthday, sick as a dog, rocking back and forth and not throwing up for three days. Not an ounce. I made it through pregnancy, dry-heaving for months, lurching over the toilet, toting my big blue plastic bowl around the house. Nothing. I even made it through Juni's projectile vomit without one drop of sympathy puke.
I will pray to whatever power will listen to not throw up. I'll sweat, cry, plead and beg. I realize no one enjoys throwing up. But I absolutely despise it.
Jasen, as in basically other aspect of our lives, is the polar opposite. No, he does not enjoy throwing up, but he'll take a good Pukefest over feeling the least bit queasy. A bit too much Jack Daniels and he's on the front steps, leaving his dinner for the dogs. A steak he let get a little too green and he's on the back porch fertilizing the roses. Stomach bug? Not for long. You get the picture.
I don't mind it when Jasen looses his lunch outside. It's when he's inside that there's an issue. The other night proved a classic example.
My Dad prepared his absolutely delicious mussels in wine and butter broth. Tasty does not begin to describe this dish. Jasen had not so much as swallowed a single mussel for about eight years, since the last time my dad made them. That time, he used butter. A lot of butter. I'd venture to guess Jasen ate a good pound of mussels. And an even better pound of butter. Later that night, he puked a good pound of mussels, and an even better pound of butter. After the other night, I'm thinking Jasen is allergic to mussels.
I've reached my un-scientific diagnosis because this time was different. There was very little butter. They were delicious in every way. My stomach welcomed every tasty bit of shellfish delight.
So imagine my surprise when I hear Jasen puking at 2 am. Everyone's husband pukes. I realize this. But here's what makes mine different:
When Jasen really has a good puke, it lasts for hours. Two, in this particular instance. Two hours of puking. Two hours of torture for him, and me.
And here's why it's torture for me. The sound in insane. There are no words to describe. But I'll try. The volume jolts me out of a dead sleep. Even a Klonopin-induced sleep. Granted, I'm a light sleeper, but this sound causes me to sit straight up in bed, terrified there's an earth quake. Or some sort of alien invasion. Or an airplane headed straight for the front yard.
It's like he's puking from his pancreas. Hoo-waa, Hoo-waa...similar to Al Pacino in Scent of a Woman. Only in a demonic voice. I've witnessed the event with my eyes only once. It freaked me out so bad I'll never walk in again. He pukes with his entire body. Muscles I didn't think he had bulging. His hair on end. His face tomato-red. I asked him once why he was so violent with the event. I thought maybe he had some sort of exotic disease that caused his puking mechanism to go haywire.
"I want to get it all out. When I'm pukin', I'm not playin'. You sit there crying over the toilet. I'm not into that. I want that shit out, man. You gotta just get it out."
Gotcha. So he's forcing the contents of every internal organ out through his mouth. I get it. The other night, I drifted in and out of sleep after asking him if he needed anything and he replied "ugh...hoo-waa...no, babe...hoo-waa. I'm fine. Don't come it. F'in mussels. I'm never touching f'in mussels again in my life. hooooo-waa." Flush.
Here are some other choice phrases that woke me up.
"Oh, my God. I though mussels smelled bad before they were digested."
"These f'ers taste f'ing horrible."
"Damn. Damn! Hoo-waa, hoo-waa." Flush.
"Ohhhh...lord. Hooo-waa. I have to get up in two hours. Hoo-waaaaaaa." Flush.
Apparently, he decided at some point to gargle some of my mouthwash to try and mask the taste of mussels, bile and our accompanying dish, spaghetti. Yep. Spaghetti. Everyone's favorite food to expel. the mouthwash was a version of Listerine meant to help whiten teeth. Which means it contains peroxide. Foaming peroxide.
"Oh holy Hell. What the Hell is in the shit? Jesus. I'd rather taste the puke. Oh God...it's drizzling down the back of my throat...Hoo-waaa. Hoooooo-waaaaa....HOOOO-WAAAA." Flush.
And then, just as abruptly as it began, it was morning. Towels from wiping his mouth were in the hamper. There was no sign of the nightmare that was the night before in the bathroom. His eyes featured circles from the lack of sleep. He bitched about the mussels ad nauseum. His skin boasted a bit of a green tint, but other than that he seemed fine. He even took out the trash he'd forgotten the night before...mussel shells and all, without missing a beat.
I hadn't realized until later that day that he'd drizzled a bit of vomit on the toilet. After Sade licked the toilet for 30 minutes while I got ready that morning, and then gave me a love lick on my calf. Now that I realize she was licking the remnants of puke, I'm not so happy about that bit of affection.
Jasen came home that night, walking a little funny. I didn't say anything until later that night, when he got into bed.
"Umm...Honey? Is something wrong? You're not quite as frisky as usual."
"Yeah, well...I'm pretty sure I pulled something last night while I was puking."
"Pulled something?"
"Yeah. I'm seriously never eating mussels again. Don't even bring them into the house. I definitely pulled something. Something important. Damnit."
"Ummm...okay...you're not giving me much to go by, here, babe."
"I think I pulled, you know, my love muscle. Is that possible?"
Oh...Good...Lord. My husband is hilarious.
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