I’ve been a little inconsistent with my writings and posting here for a while. The reasons for such are wide and varied, and not in need of rehearsing. So, that being said—or rather, written out—let’s get on with it. Recently, I came across a portion of a story that never was completed. Really, all I had was one paragraph and some notes on how to start the whole thing. Once found, I let it ruminate until I could most accurately recall the details. It has sat for so many years that I had come to the conclusion that I should just post what I had and say something like, “This is what I had, I have no idea what this is about. Enjoy.” Then let it just be an as-is thing. However, a few days ago, most of it came back to me, and since I accidentally started a tradition of having a vomit-related story being published at Thanksgiving time, I felt I had to post this on time for the holiday.
Most of you have probably seen the larger one-gallon(ish)-sized ice cream buckets. They are great for so many reasons. Relatively inexpensive to purchase. They can be used for the storage of small things. They make a great cleaning bucket; add water, soap, a washcloth, and clean away. Hold water you are draining from something (like a toilet). Plus, in order to get them, you need to buy a bucket of ice cream. Oh! The pain! The horror! Ice Cream, noooo…!
If you don’t know that’s a joke, then you haven’t read much on this blog, or are possibly lactose intolerant (or just hate lactose—even less tolerant), or don’t reasonably understand sarcasm in written form. Regardless, ice cream is awesome. And, a free bucket is a free bucket. Win, win.
It was late into the evening of a weekend night (I believe it was a Friday night, but it could just as easily been a Saturday night). My wife and I lay in our bed when we heard, or thought we heard, a thumping on our floor—from underneath us.
Our bedroom is on the second floor of our house. It is also on the ground floor of our home. Which means, yes, we have a basement. And, included in that basement, there are bedrooms, a bathroom, and a family room. It is a great place to hang out—the fireplace makes it so awesome in the wintertime. Anyway… directly beneath my wife’s and my bedroom was our son’s bedroom.
It was the largest bedroom in our home, and with two boys who were going to be sharing it, they needed the space. Additionally, the layout of the room had a nook in one corner where I had built a set of custom bunk beds for them. This position of their beds placed them just off to the vertical side of where my wife’s and my bed was (and is) set. So, the banging on the floor beneath us both made sense and didn’t.
It did because there were human dwellers below where we rested. It also didn’t because our boys never did anything like that. Our children didn’t go about thumping on their ceilings/our floors. Plus, the thumping began softly, then slowly got louder. My wife and I lay there and then heard a soft, *thump* *thump*.
“Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“Never mind.”
Another soft, *thump* *thump*.
“There it is again.”
“Yeah, I think I heard it that time.”
A louder, *thump* *thump*.
“Is that underneath us?”
“What would do that? There’s no plumbing or anything there…?”
“But I heard it.”
“The boy’s room…?”
A much louder, stronger, *thump* *thump*.
“Okay, something’s going on.”
“Let’s go.”
Upon entering our son’s room, my wife and I found ourselves staring at our oldest son, sitting upright on the top bunk, doing his best impression of a chipmunk—his cheeks were swollen and bloated to an extreme, as were his eyes.
“What’s going on? Were you banging on the ceiling?”
No answer.
“Son…” Then we saw a little bit of fluid begin to form on his lips. It was coming from inside his mouth. Not only was he holding back, he was holding it back. The hurl was being held in a non-hurling pattern.
“Get a bucket!”
My wife remained with our son as I bolted for that long afore mentioned ice cream bucket. As good parents, we had a few of them. I was back just as the dam was about to burst. Fortunately, the bucket retained it all.
For those that were anticipating a gushing gastronomic grotesque, a spectacular spewing, a pouring forth of half-digested prechewed chunks contained deep within my son’s stomach, I apologize. For those that were not expecting a visually graphic scene of digestive fluids and bits of food rushing forward to cover an undetermined surface area at powerful speeds from my son, you’re welcome.
“What was that all about?”
“Was that you doing all the banging?”
After some much required cleaning up and a little bit of discussion, we learned that our son had begun to feel sick and rather than risk getting out of bed and throwing up all over the floor on the way to the bathroom—and also not wanting to upchuck in his bed—he opted to remain right where he was and hold the vile pile of bile right in his mouth and cheeks.
I completely understood. I had been there myself—once.
The banging on the ceiling was because he realized that he didn’t know what to do with a face full of retch, and required some assistance, but couldn’t call out for help—for obvious reasons. He cobbled together the idea that since he was on the top bunk, and closer to the ceiling than the bathroom, if he banged on it (the ceiling, not the bed or bathroom), he would get our attention—eventually. Or he would just puke all over anyway and come and get us. I’m glad the former worked out and not the latter.
Well done, my son. Well done.
Almost Heroes 