The Three Pound Stomach Bug and Dr. House

The other day someone mentioned the title of a little French restaurant on Southside, and I immediately flashed to me barfing lobster bisque onto our driveway after dinner there two Februarys ago. It wasn't the food that made me sick (or the wine); it was a stomach virus my daughter brought home from school. And it occurred to hit just as we came home that day.

Recalling the horror of it all made me ponder how long it had been since I had hosted a tummy bug. Two decades precisely. "Huh," I thought. "I wonder if I could live a good long life without needing one again? I bet I can do it."

That very night after my husband clicked off the special post-Super Bowl episode of House, I had trouble falling asleep. Something just wasn't right. I tossed about like the flipper in search of a magic portal to a peaceful, sleepy location. Images of Dr. House's investigation and those picture shots they show of what's happening inside the body flickered as I squirmed, and my thoughts swelled with drama. I felt sick and hot.

Maybe I had the same thing the girl House treated had. I don't recall what it was known, but House was the only one who could save her. Where would I find a real-life Dr. House to fix me? "I don't feel good!" I blurted out loud. "I am sorry, Honey. Please be still," whispered my husband.

Three hours later, I was yanked from my covers and hauled into the bathroom by an invisible creature. What happened after that is just way too revolting to share. It had been bad. Real bad.

When round-one was over-I knew there would be more-I gripped the counter for balance and squinted into the mirror in my dead expression. My skin was the color and texture of iceberg lettuce. I wiped away my sweat mustache, splashed water on my face and turned to return to bed. As I reached up a cold clam-hand to turn out the light, I spotted the electronic scales on the ground underneath the towel rack. I could not stop myself; I needed to do it. I could hardly stand, but I had to. One point five pounds lighter than this morning. So cool, I weakly glowed as I wholeheartedly questioned my sanity and cringed in my dressing table. Dr. House would not be entertained.

I slept for two more hours before the next vomit/ria fest, and then again for an hour until I hit the dreaded every-thirty-minutes mark. Sooner or later, I was able to jerk a towel down for a blanket before slipping unconscious.

He'd coffee breath and stressed lips. He seemed frustrated and not at all to it. But, somehow, I was. Just as he was able to push me off him with his cane, and I had been suggesting we backpack to Prague, my eyes swung open For more.