Christmas Bug

You know that sinking feeling when your body tells you something’s terribly wrong? Well, let me tell you about my recent Christmas trip to Texas, when I got up close and personal with the dreaded norovirus.

In the days leading up to our flight, I was practically a germaphobe. Hand-washing became my new hobby — every door knob touched, every surface encountered meant another trip to the sink to wash my hands with soap and warm water while singing the “Happy Birthday” tune in my head. I was determined not to let anything spoil our holiday visit with my husband’s biological family.

Thursday afternoon, I felt great. We touched down in the Lone Star state around 3 p.m., where my mother- in-law greeted us with her warm smile and Texas drawl. She whisked us away to her house, where a feast awaited: Mexican dishes steaming on her kitchen island and assorted Christmas cookies arranged just so on festive platters. Her house was decorated like something out of a magazine. It was pure heaven!

But around 9 p.m., as we gathered in her kitchen to say our goodnights before heading to the hotel, something hit me like a runaway train. A wave of heat coursed through my body, and my body temperature shot from normal to 101 faster than I could say “Merry Christmas,” or rather, “Feliz Navidad.” I gave my husband a panicked look, and he knew — we needed to move, and fast.

Sixty seconds later, I was hanging my head out the car window like a drooling dog, desperately gulping the cool night air. “Hurry,” I managed to squeak out. “This is going to be bad…” The next several hours became a blur of trips between the hotel bed and bathroom. By 3 a.m., when the vomiting started, I almost welcomed it — anything to relieve the intense pressure in my stomach. There’s nothing quite like spending quality time on a hotel bathroom floor, wet with sweat, feeling disgusting, wrapped in a thin bath towel, contemplating life’s great mysteries. Where did I pick up this unwelcome visitor? Why is the human body designed to revolt so spectacularly? Will we ever achieve world peace? Will I make it to the Meitzen Christmas party? Please Lord, don’t let anyone else in the family catch this.

My husband woke at 7:30 a.m., determined to get me to a Med Stop for some relief. The thought of leaving my newfound bathroom sanctuary seemed as impossible as climbing Mount Everest in flip-flops, but he insisted. The Med Stop staff, bless their hearts, moved at a pace that suggested they had all the time in the world. Meanwhile, I alternated between sprawling across waiting room chairs and making mad dashes to their facilities.

Finally, the doctor delivered the verdict: norovirus, a highly contagious virus that causes what doctors call “acute gastroenteritis,” which is just a fancy way of saying it turns your insides into a war zone. Most folks recover within one to three days.

The doctor gave me a prescription for some meds to help me be less nauseated so that I could sip water and Gatorade without seeing it again. Thankfully, the meds worked.

We got back to the hotel, and I climbed into the bed and slept and slept and slept — Rip Van Winkle type sleep. I was simply exhausted from the trauma of it all. Later that evening, upon my husband’s insistence, I managed to eat five grapes and three Premium saltine crackers. The day after that, I was a little better.

We did not make it to the big Texas Meitzen family Christmas party, and for that, I am sorry. I feel like I ruined my husband’s Christmas, though I couldn’t help getting sick. We did get to see and spend time with his mother, his sister and his brother, continued from page

though we were careful not to get very close to any of them.

Looking back now, I can laugh about it — sort of. But let me tell you, there’s nothing like a bout with norovirus to make you appreciate the simple things in life: a steady stomach, a comfortable bed that’s not a bathroom floor, an appetite, and a spouse who loves you enough to risk their own digestive system health to take care of you.

As for the Christmas party, well, there’s always next year. Y’all be safe out there, and remember: Wash those hands!