I came home from work on Tuesday to find the Swede in bed with a bucket next to the nightstand. NOT a good sign.
My first thought was that the Curse of my Nephew’s Birthday Party had struck again. The lad happened to born in the middle of Sweden’s interminable cold & flu season (which coincides with the infamous “winter barfing disease” season as well) and it’s become something of a tradition that one of us always comes back from his birthday celebration having picked up a bug from one of the kids in attendance.
Dr. Darling insists that this particular bout of gastro-intestinal distress is courtesy of “something going around at work”, but I’m not convinced. I have been on board with the supportive spouse routine, however, and made sure we a steady supply of bland soups, soothing herbal teas and fizzy soft drinks on hand.
By Wednesday night, the Walking Wounded thought Swedish pancakes “sounded good”, and so I dutifully stopped by the store for eggs on my way home from work. For the uninitiated, Swedish pancakes are closer to crepes than actual pancakes as Americans know them. They are extraordinarily thin and light and have very little substance to them at all, so it was somewhat surprising when the Dr. Darling claimed to be stuffed after eating just three.
Three hours later the Swedish pancakes made an encore appearance, along with the bland soup and soothing herbal tea consumed earlier in the day. I volunteered to hold her hair back, but the ever-pragmatic Swede had already put it in a ponytail in anticipation of the event.
Now I generally have a pretty strong stomach, but my gag-reflex must have been hyper-active last night because I could not stay in the bathroom with the wretching spouse, who was grateful for even the IDEA of moral support.
Dr. Darling: I really appreciate you staying here while I barf.
Shazzer: Even though I’m just hovering in the hallway outside of the bathroom?
Dr. Darling: Well, if you were the one throwing up, I’d be out on the balcony by now.