A Childhood Nightmare

Last night was a living nightmare from childhood. I forgot what it felt like to keep a lonely, late-night vigil with only a cold, porcelain bowl for company. The sand papery feeling in my tired eyes, the silent begging for my body to sleep or at least stop being so regularly ill, but hoping beyond hope for both. I was always set up on the couch so I wouldn't wake the little sister with my constant comings and goings, my restless turning in the night, the few times when I would have to employ the giant to my child hands sauce pan that acted as my back up for when I couldn't get out of my blankets fast enough. The nights would always end with me falling into an exhausted sleep at five or six in the morning halfway through my fourth movie. Usually the bustle of my family would wake me, but then I could stumble to bed and fall into non-existence for the rest of day.

You're probably wondering why I'm telling you this. This is not something you need to know. Though I do think it's interesting to note the differences from last night and twenty years ago (Ma wished me good luck before going to bed instead of setting me up in my little couch cocoon of illness, I spent the night in my own bed instead of on the couch because there was no one in my room to disturb, I didn't have a straw in my little cup of sprite because I didn't know where to find them in the new kitchen), what is really important about last night is how it reminded me that there is someone out there who subtly influences our lives to make them better. Often harder, but always, always better.

One. I spent six hours cleaning my bathroom and then was gone for five days living it up in Phoenix which means my bathroom only saw about a week's worth of use before my late-night vigil, and it was still pristine. The only thing worse than being violently ill all night, is being violently ill in a grimy toilet, in a grimy bathroom, on a grimy floor. How is that evidence of a person ruling the universe who loves me on an individual level? I can say with certainty, my bathroom has not been that clean since the day we moved in. I can't speak to its cleanliness on the day we moved in. I was seven and far more interested in the playability of the big toy in the backyard. It's possible my bathroom has never been that clean. Ever.

My bathroom is no longer pristine. You may think it's in my head, tainted by association. It's not. I had to wash my face with hot water and real soap after my first three encounters. So much splashing. My face was not happy. In general I use raw honey and olive oil as my face washing products. This morning the whole thing aches from dryness. Weirdly, I can tell exactly were on my face my tears were most likely to fall while I was doing my business. The salt from my tears sucked out any moisture those parts of my face might have been hiding. My face only kind of hurts. My tear tracks are silently screaming.

Two. We had Sprite in the refrigerator. This was important. My first three encounters were spent emptying my stomach of everything I had eaten in my past two meals. The two encounters after that I didn't have anything left to get rid of which meant there were several seconds of super painful gagging, followed by a small mouthful of stomach acid and burning in the back of my throat and nose that I couldn't get at with a toothbrush.

Sprite, spiked with the tiniest bit of apple juice, comes up almost as easy as it goes down and doesn't burn in either direction (I stir mine when I'm sick so it's super flat). Also, it tastes pretty much the same going down or coming up. TMI? Probably, but it's true.

Also, sprite has sugar, something my body sorely needed. On the off chance I did manage to keep a mouthful or two down, my body would thank me for giving it some calories.

I can't remember the last time we had sprite in our outside refrigerator. Normal sprite. Occasionally we have sprite zero which I will use to spike my fruit juices. It takes me months to get through twelve cans of the stuff. But real sprite with the sugar and everything in it? It's been years. And yet when I popped out to the garage refrigerator to assess my options on sick drinks, there was a brand new twelve pack just waiting for me. I know it wasn't there a couple of weeks ago. For some reason, Ma thought it would be a good idea to buy sprite with sugar sometime in the past two weeks and as soon as we're both awake at the same time I'm going to gush to her about how thankful I am.

I've been slowly drinking a can's worth of sprite spiked with apple juice this morning. I'm hoping I'll sleep better. Chances are good it's about all I'll ingest today.

Three. It's been less than a week that my hair has been long enough for me to pull it all up and back with a single hair elastic and a couple of bobby pins. It's off my face and off my neck. If I had been sick even a week ago it would have been nearly impossible to keep my hair out of the splash zone. I would have had to use myriad bobby pins with a distinct tendency to slip out at the worst possible moment. My face is easy to wash. My clothes easy to change (I had to change my pajama shirt three times during the night, and my sleeping shorts once). But my hair? Not easy to wash in the middle of night when my brain is fuzzy from lack of sleep, my eyes are like sandpaper, and my body hurts everywhere from the constant squatting and standing up again, the heaving, and the leaning over the sink to brush my teeth (which I stopped doing at about two in the morning; there didn't seem to be a point to keeping it up).

These things might seem silly to you. I can say with certainty my night would have been far worse without a clean bathroom, a can of sprite, and a way to keep my hair out of my face. Perhaps you may see these as coincidences or great luck. That's fine, but I know they're not. Unfortunately it's not a type of knowing you can pass from one person to another. It's something you need to know for yourself. Before you know you can't help but doubt the possibility. After you know, you wonder how you ever could have not known.

I do know. I know that those weren't coincidences but were instead clear manifestations of the powerful love the God of everything has for me. He cares about me enough to influence my life in such a way than when I'm up all night living a childhood nightmare, I'll have a clean bathroom, a can of sprite, and a way to keep my hair clean.

You might think it would be nicer if he had kept me from being sick in the first place. Which is partly true. I would have preferred to spend last night blissfully sleeping instead of heading to the bathroom every half hour like clockwork. But our bodies get sick for a reason. Often, it helps us know how to better take care of them. We went to a restaurant to celebrate the Ma's birthday yesterday. This was not a case of food poisoning. Ma and I shared the same burger and the same basket of fries and she was in bed all night. (I can't say she was sleeping all night. I'm sure my antics woke her. Once a mother, always a mother.) This is the second time in the past few years I've been so sick I couldn't help but empty my stomach after eating there. That's significant. I've probably thrown up only half a dozen times (I'm counting last night as a single incident) in the past few years and most of those half dozen times where during that time period when I was on that medication that made it hard for me to eat without being sick after. This is my body's way of telling me to please stop eating there. I like the taste of the food, but my body really struggles with it. I will never eat there again because now I know better.

I also want to note that there was no great lesson to be learned from the can of sprite or the super clean bathroom. These were not put in my life to teach me, to help me grown and learn. They were put there because my Father loves me enough to want to make my life a little easier. Seeing and feeling that love manifested in such small ways nearly makes last night worth it.

There's one more thing I've been thinking about. We'll call it four. This one has less to do with a specific happening of the night. Last night reminded me how lucky I am to work a job where I can take a sick day, of how lucky I am that even if I was really very sick for several weeks and needed to quit my job for a little while that it would be possible because of the financial position I'm in. I'm not rich. I'm actually pretty poor. But I'm so much richer than most of the world. For so many people a day of missed work means a day of missed pay which means less food for their children, less chance to buy a used pair of shoes for their growing children's feet or more chance that they won't be able to make their rent payment. It could also mean the chance to be replaced by a younger, seemingly healthier worker that won't need sick days. Truly, I am blessed.

You'll have to excuse me now. I fell into an exhausted sleep sometime around five. My body woke itself up at about twenty to seven, ten minutes after my usual wake up time but not too shabby after spending most of the night awake. Of course, I'd much prefer I hadn't woken up, but it gave me time to send an email to my manager letting her know I would not be appearing for work and to cancel the meetings that there's no point in holding if I'm not there because I was the host of the meetings and I have the work that needs discussing and the ideas for implementing and I would be doing the work that came out of those meetings.

I'm trying to trick my body into letting me sleep. My blackout curtains are open, letting the sun flood in, and I'm keeping my brain occupied. When I log off, I'll close my blackout curtains, turn on my fan to keep the room cool like night, and stop using my brain. This is supposed to signal sleeping time to my body. Wish me luck.

Also, I thought you might like to know that I've made a pact with myself to never eat again. Ever. Except applesauce and water. And the occasional sprite spiked with juice for when things start feeling sketchy. In six months I might consider adding toast to my diet. Another six months after that I might consider adding in oatmeal. I do love oatmeal. But that is it. For the rest of forever. And I'm only considering those items for the continuance of life. Something about the necessity of calories to keep your heart pumping.

One last thought. Last night was awful and endless. As the night wore on I couldn't see anything but dark half hours stretching into forever and beyond, an endless night of tired eyes and achey muscles and crying (not sob crying, but I apparently cannot throw up without tears leaking out of my eyes; this is one thing that hasn't changed over the past twenty years). An endless night of a little pain growing into small gags and then big gags and then a need to be in the bathroom right now or else.

I slept for less than two hours. The sun is out. The pain in my belly is gone (though my muscles are super sore). I've been nursing a can of sprite (still no straw) over the past hour, an amount it took me five hours to drink last night, without the slightest sign that I might need to run to the bathroom to rid myself of it. This is how it always used to be as a child. The night would end, the day would dawn, and it would feel like I had spent the night living in some sort of surreal, alternate universe.

And I can read again. That's impossible during the night when I'm tired and my head hurts from lack of sleep and anything is liable to set off my need to run to the bathroom. When I try to read during a night like last night, the letters dance in front of my eyes and make me motion sick. But today I can read. Good thing as that will be my go to activity if can't manage to convince my body it should be sleeping.

It's amazing to me the difference night and day makes. I don't understand. I see no logic in it. But somehow, it works.

Thank goodness for a shoddy memory.

PS, I realize this is a really long post about a subject you don't much care to hear about. If I'd gotten more sleep last night, perhaps I could trim it down. As it is, my bed is calling. If you made it this far, congratulations. I'd tell you to leave a comment and I'll bring you cookies, but since I've sworn off cookies for the rest of forever you'll have to settle with a pat on the back administered by yourself to yourself.