Sexuality Happens

Last weekend, Q’s birthday weekend, we were both sick as dogs. I mean, I have had a lot of illness in my life, but the majority of it has been respiratory; whooping cough, pneumonia, etc. Or it’s been physically injury, like my knees, and hips, and getting hit with a boomerang, or having my foot caught in the fly wheel of a bike. I’ve been lucky enough not to have had much in the way of stomach bugs since I was a kid.

WARNING: Story is about a stomach bug. Don’t read if you have a weak tummy.

Now, this is good, because I hate throwing up. I’d rather have 30 MRIs or 50 injections that throw up once. I hate hate hate the feeling of throwing up. It’s one of the many reasons I’ve never been a big drinker; the fear of possibly drinking to much and then throwing up is a very potent weapon to sticking with a glass or two of wine, and frou frou and delicious drinks.

But all this aside, I came home the night of the 5th from teaching a class at Fascinations on the G-spot and Female Ejaculation. I was fine. I made myself some homemade guacamole, ate it with pita chips, and suddenly, I didn’t feel so good. We went to bed.

An hour later, Q found me on the floor of the bathroom, holding an alcohol pad to my nose (it can reduce nausea) with an empty bottle of Pepto Bismo.  I was hugging the toilet, trying to do everything in my power that I could to not throw up. Unfortunately, it didn’t work.

For the next 6 hours, I had one of the worst nights of my entire life. Every hour, on the hour, like clock work, I would run to the bathroom to projectile vomit. I’ve never experienced this before; vomit being forced out of your body, through your mouth, and both nostriles, while you’re essentially peeing out your ass. I’d vomit and shit at the same time. My throat and nose were burning, my ass was chapped. I used every available place to throw up; the toilet, the sink, a trash can, the bathtub.

And through out all of this, Q had a damp washcloth on the back of my neck, and helped me clean up and bleach the crap out of everything…each and every time I pulled an Exorcist. I couldn’t even keep down water, and my black eye make up from the night before was smeared down my face, adding the the look. She brought me SmartWater, and helped me into bed, each and every time. Finally, at 5am, when it showed no signs of stopping, she drove desperately trying to find an open drug store (this is AZ, remember?), and brought me home more Pepto, and Gingerale, and Gatorade.

Through all of this, I don’t remember much, although I do distinctly remember trying to verbalize how much everything hurt and how much I just wanted to die. However, as I lay in bed the next day, my muscles exhausted, too weak to even move to get online, I remembered how cared for I felt. How much having her help me through this meant to me.  

Oh course, the poor thing got sick Saturday night (although she only threw up once), and was dead to the world all day Sunday. Birthday plans were obviously postponed.

Love has many facets. There is the attraction, the reliability, the thrill of something new, the chemical connection, the familiarity. But when I am sick, there is nothing more in the world that I want (other than possibly to die, in this case) than to have someone taking care of me. And when Q, who had a luncheon and two presentations the next day, spent her night taking care of me, I just realized, yet again, how much I love her, and how much love she has for me. Cleaning up after the Exorcist? Now THAT is love.

-Essin’ Em