The Bug Strikes Back

Newsletter 2025-03-03

I am alive.

That doesn’t sound like much, but to me, it was the accomplishment of the century. I was laid low by a sudden and unexpected stomach bug that kept me horizontal for nearly all of Saturday. Given all of my actual near-death experiences, this one was only “near death” because I’m a whiner. In the midst of it, though, my survival hardly felt assured. This is the tale or the worst Saturday in recent memory. That only applies to me. For one of the kids, it was the best weekend of her life.

My Saturday started off early. I had to get Betsy to the high school by 8 a.m. so she could spend the next seventeen hours at a show choir competition on the other side of Indianapolis. Anyone who thinks sports are the biggest time sink has never encountered their school’s music department. Since I was already up, I continued on to the gym. It’s a place I go every day of my life, making it a good litmus test for my health at any given moment. Something has to go catastrophically wrong for me to cut a workout short or to skip one all together. One time, when I showed up to the gym with no symptoms, I ran out of energy after the first exercise. I came home and tested positive for covid. Another time, I gave up mid-workout because I could no longer sit on the machines. A few hours later, I was in septic shock from an abscess on my butt. Then there was the time my appendix exploded. I drove myself to the emergency room at 3 a.m. in incredible pain. The doctor on duty sent me home because I was a big baby and there was nothing wrong with me. I went home and slept for a few hours after slamming an ill-advised quantity of Tylenol. I didn’t go to the gym after I woke up, but I did run an entire morning’s worth of errands. I was in septic shock before noon, and had been in and out of surgery by dinner time. Being unable to lift light weights in my low-intensity workouts is the canary in the coal mine warning me that something is about to go very wrong with my organs. Not that anything with me is ever completely right.

Saturday, I made it through half my workout before I felt the sudden change. My next exercise involved bending over at the waist. A new discomfort in my stomach made it clear that, if I attempted that feat, I might suffer the kind of catastrophic humiliation that would require me to change gyms if not zip codes. Rather than risking it, I cut my workout short. I had planned to make my weekly grocery run afterwards. Instead, I drove straight home. It was the last time I was fully upright for the rest of the day.

I crashed on the couch and stayed there for hours, getting up only to run to the bathroom. Okay, it was more of an urgent shuffle. Meanwhile, the three remaining kids gradually woke up and ventured downstairs. They’re slow risers on the weekend, which I fully support. It’s hard to get into trouble when you’re unconscious. The girls were surprised to find me looking more pathetic and feeble than usual. More importantly, I was taking up nearly the entire couch. I could have at least had the courtesy to die on the floor. My brother-in-law Jerry texted me to ask if Waffle and her cousin could play Minecraft together. It was cross platform, so it required some troubleshooting. Solving complicated tech problems is exactly what I want to do when my stomach is on the verge of nuclear detonation. After Jerry and I got them set up, I slowly retreated upstairs to my room. I couldn’t handle listening to the kids argue. They were playing on creative mode, so they had infinite resources in infinite space. Of course they wouldn’t be able to agree on how to share it.

I fell on my bed, exhausted, and pondered the strangeness of my plight. No one else in my house had had so much as a runny nose for weeks. I by far have the least human contact of everyone in the family. Then again, I did go to a Pacers game with ten thousand other people last week. None of them were particularly close in my mostly empty nosebleed section. It’s not like I ran up to other rows for victory hugs at the end of the game. Lucy was there with me, and she was no worse for the wear. Then again, as a kid perpetually surrounded by other sick kids at school, her immune system is tougher than mine. Food poisoning was another possible suspect, but the rest of my family disproved that theory. We all eat the same things. If one of us goes down, we all go down. You take your life into your own hands when you submit to my cooking.

Alone in my room, I wallowed in illness and self-pity. Lola had left after lunch to attend Betsy’s marathon show choir competition. It was just me and the three younger kids. I deputized my twelve-year-old, Mae, charging her with keeping me and her siblings alive until Lola got back. I didn’t need much. Late in the afternoon, I texted her asking for Gatorade and oranges. She conveniently never checked her phone. I spammed my list of family contacts until Lucy finally answered. She brought up the few foods I thought I could keep down. That’s what taking your child to a Pacers game gets you: basic delivery service in your darkest hour. I need to prioritize getting the other three kids to a game so they’re less likely to abandon me. For the added medical coverage, those basketball tickets are a steal at any price.

No round of the flu is ever convenient, but this one was especially ill-timed. I was supposed to drive to Illinois that evening to attend a trivia night at my former elementary school with my parents. I texted my mom early in the day to tell her I wasn’t feeling well. I said my plan was to sleep it off. After hours of lying down, I was sicker and weaker than ever. I had to cancel. My parents managed to come in second without me. I’m sure they missed the zero questions I would have answered if I were there.

The Gatorade bottles were a low point. I make fun of Lola and the kids for struggling to open them. I’m not the strongest guy in the world, but I can twist off the cap on a plastic bottle. Saturday afternoon, I could barely open the ones Lucy delivered. I couldn’t ask for help. I would have died from shame long before dehydration. Instead, I twisted until it felt like my arm was going to fall off. Finally, the cap gave way. I’d say I was as weak as a kitten, but I’ve seen some pretty strong kittens. Just try pulling them off the curtains after they dig in their claws. The Gatorade bottle confirmed my worst fears. In the elderly population, lower grip strength is correlated with a higher risk of mortality. I was thirty-nine going on eighty. As ever, my body was my own worst enemy.

I dipped in and out of consciousness while watching European soccer on ESPN+. Those soothing English accents are the world’s best sleep aid. At some point, I smelled something cooking two floors below. The kids managed to make themselves grilled cheese sandwiches without burning down the house. The lack of an uncontrolled blaze was appreciated. If there had been a fire, I couldn’t have moved fast enough to get out.

While I was busy wearing myself out with strenuous tasks like adjusting my blankets and using the remote, Betsy was a whirlwind of activity at her competition. She and her show choir group came in first in their category, winning the world’s largest trophy. Lola proudly sent pictures to every group chat she’s in. At 4’ 8”, the trophy was only four inches shorter than her. It’s every performer’s dream to one day win an award bigger than their mom. With that honor came an additional obligation. Betsy’s group had to compete again at 8:25 p.m. for an overall prize. Her choir director messaged parents to let us know the kids were expected back at the high school at the perfectly reasonable hour of 1 a.m.. That meant either Lola or I would have to stay up that late. It certainly wasn’t going to be me.

Lola drove home after Betsy’s first performance. She didn’t trust any of us to be unsupervised past midnight. It was my job to keep Lola awake until 1 a.m. so she could retrieve Betsy when she got back to the high school. I did a very bad job. I had recovered enough to stay awake through a full movie, but I was still asleep by 11 p.m.. Lola must have managed without me. When I woke up the next morning, Betsy was here, so she got home somehow. This household functions best when I’m not involved.

Sunday morning, I felt better but not fully normal. I could at least stand up and move around. By lunch, I was well enough to go to the grocery store, which felt like a monumental accomplishment. While there, I heard a strange screeching. I assumed there was a bird in the rafters. It was actually a guy walking around Walmart with two parakeets on his shoulders. He attracted quite a crowd. I’ve done a lot of sad things for attention over the years, but even I haven’t resorted to bringing birds into the produce aisle. None of the store’s staff confronted him. They either didn’t see the guy, or, more likely, didn’t care. Walmart is like international waters when it comes to pet rules. I left with my groceries, unsure if what I had seen was real or the last remnants of a fever dream. Little did I know the real fever dream was going on at home.

Lucy was down for the count. She had a fever of a hundred degrees and the reddest cheeks I’d ever seen. She didn’t have the digestive distress I had experienced, but she was feeling just as weak. Perhaps the Pacers game really had done us both in. She also might have gotten it when she ventured into my room to bring me food and fluids while the other kids stayed away. Natural selection seldom favors the kind. The timing was even worse for Lucy than it was for me. Sunday was the Blue and Gold Banquet, where Cub Scouts graduate into BSA Scouts. Lucy had been looking forward to it all year. Many of the decorations were swine themed in honor of her patrol, the Powerful Pigs. I’ll give you one guess for which kid named it. My influence on that poor child has been destructive in every area of her life. Here’s hoping she spends more time with her mother.

Lucy was devastated that she couldn’t go to the Blue and Gold Banquet, but not as devastated as Lola. We still went to the ceremony to help out and support the other scouts. Shortly after we got there, Lola asked me to take her home because she couldn't stop crying. She's a small person with big feelings. Let the record show that she wasn't nearly that upset about me missing trivia night. Thankfully, Lucy’s new BSA troop leader came to the rescue. She offered to have a private crossover ceremony for Lucy at the next meeting. Lucy will get to walk across that wooden bridge after all. Even better, we got her, not one, but two cakes at the dessert auction at the banquet. One of them was pig themed, of course.

Update: Lucy and Mae both threw up over night. It seems this round of plague is here to stay.

Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for now. Catch you next time.

James