Sick Bay
One night last week, around 9 PM, Elijah began to complain of a stomach hurt. By 10 PM, he'd slathered his sheets with what can only be referred to as whitefish in red sauce. And the vomiting continued all night.
He spent the next day in our bed watching videos, running a low-grade fever. Regina attempted to diagnose.
"I think he has Lyme disease," she said.
"He does not have Lyme disease," I replied.
"I hate limes," said Elijah.
"No, Neal, I think he does," Regina said.
Her reasoning was this: Elijah had gotten bit by a deer tick when he was taking a hike in Nashville with Regina and his Nana. The tick burrowed inside the top of his ear for a couple of days. And that former burrow was still a little red, with a whitehead at the point of healing. Therefore, Lyme disease.
"Come on," I said.
"Sometimes it takes weeks to manifest itself," she said.
"Right."
"And it can seriously damage his heart."
"OK."
"You're not taking me seriously."
"Right. Because Elijah doesn't have Lyme disease."
Then over the last couple of days, Elijah suffered from something unmentionable here, but let's just say that some people think it's gross, but it really tastes good on toast. And I've heard this phrase several times:
"If he doesn't get better soon, we're going to have to take him to the doctor."
To which I've replied:
"You never know. He could have Lyme Disease."
To which Regina has replied:
"Asshole."
This morning, Elijah freaked out in the bathroom because I washed his hands with a bar of soap instead of the usual liquid soap. He said I'd "ruined" his "decoration soap," and then he pulled a towel of the towel bar and kicked at my shin.
He was off to his room for punishment. Once in his room, he fell to the floor and clutched his stomach.
"OWWWW!" he said. "My tummy hurts really bad!"
"Uh-huh," I said. "You'd better apologize to me right now, mister."
"My tummy hurts!"
"Neal," Regina said. "His tummy really could hurt."
In the midst of my highly-effective disciplinary action, Regina sent Eljiah to the toilet, where he immediately proclaimed that his tummy felt better. Then he apologized to me and we washed his hands with liquid soap.
"If he says his tummy hurts again," Regina said. "We're going to call the doctor."
And that's when the alien burst out of Elijah's stomach. We were too late. And now something evil is crawling around in the ducts.
Comments
You should get a cat, my girlfriend let me borrow hers and it not only killed the squirrel living in my ducts but left it on my doorstep. Then again, it didn't bleed acid.
Posted by: Soren Bowie | June 14, 2007 3:35 PM
so, one day at my bookstore job, paul westerberg and his kid, johnny (who was 4 at the time), came in. the poor guy knew i was a fan, but i mostly left him alone, save a barely suppressed grin and a penguin dance of sorts in his presence--stiff arms flapping at my sides as i bounced from one foot to the next. but this one day, as the minneapolis skies opened up into a splendid downpour,i made them postpone their walk home so i could present a little gift i'd been saving, a VHS of the dr. seuss musical, 'the 5000 fingers of dr. t'. it's a treasure, really, but i'll acknowledge its limited appeal. and i had such unfortunate timing! i asked him about it later, and he, deer in the headlights, replied that he thought johnny a bit young.
crazy neighbor-types with movies to share. poor bastard. at least we mean well. good luck with yours, neal.
Posted by: jennylynn | June 18, 2007 10:36 PM
I swear I have had the same exact conversation except it was spinal meningitis and our alien makes all the damn dogs in the 'hood bark at 5am. Too funny!
Posted by: David LaPlante | June 20, 2007 3:28 PM