Foodies and the Flu

This past weekend, my husband and I flew to New Orleans for a conference he was attending. I spent the first full day with my family doing what we do best: eating and talking about eating.


Oh, Lawd, as we say down there. For my friends, I left a Facebook food diary in my dining wake—pictures of fried oysters wading in a light pool of remoulade, a wedge of iceberg lettuce and crumbled blue cheese on the side; po boys with flaky bread crust and premium deli meats and cheeses showing a swath of creole mustard; jumbo prawn flecked with seasoning, its meat the heavy steak of all shrimp, and fresh enough to taste gulf waters; and even a lone chocolate turtle from MacKenzie’s—the fudgy frosting swirled on a pecan sandy-style cookie. Unfortunately, my husband experienced a limited amount of fine cuisine between commitments at his conference; the morning of his second day, he found himself re-living my little son’s recent flu experience. Any joyful consumption from Friday was retched all day Saturday. As he shook under the covers and murmured in delirium, I cancelled plans: tea at Windsor Court, dinner at Antoine’s, the tour of the D-Day Museum. The hotel sent me extra pillows and blankets, a can of air freshener, and a stack of menus for restaurants that deliver. Instead of wine, I poured my husband Gatorade. In place of white napkins on his lap, he received cool, wet cloths for his forehead.

Sunday, my parents delivered us to the airport. We promised that we would be fine. My husband was better, albeit slow. Little did we know that we would board a plane without an operable toilet, have that flight cancelled while we sat waiting for take off, wait in line in the terminal another hour or more, and then get rescheduled to come home after my children’s bedtime. With time to kill, my dad and sister rolled by the airport for a second chance to party with us (my bourbon was great--my husband savored ice chips instead.) By afternoon, my spouse was looking more and more like death—his energy completely depleted. On the walkway to the first flight, I found him kneeling and bent over. Within minutes of tucking him into his seat, I requested an electric cart to shuttle us to our connecting flight. Flight attendants brought us ice and sick bags and we tucked his coat around him like a blanket. Men on either side of us leaned over to offer help—alcohol wipes, medicine, et cetera.

Our connecting airport was big and we had scant minutes between flights. We pushed our way through a crowd to flag down the cart that had been sent for us. My husband curled up (if any man 6’1” can really bend his frame to that description) around a pile of luggage. The driver took one look at my panicked face and started yelling at people to back away from the cart so we could turn around and head to the escalators and trains. There was no one waiting on the other concourse for us, so we walked, or should I say lurched, toting our luggage and seeking out garbage cans for emergency vomitoriums just in case. We were the last ones on the flight, it having been held for us. The attendant on our small jet watched my husband heave into the plastic bags she had given him and asked if I wanted the EMTs to meet us on the ground, but I said just a wheelchair would suffice. For the two hours of that flight, my beloved slept fitfully and unable to talk. From my seat further back on the narrow plane, I could see his shoulders shake.

We made it home, but barely. Two days later, my husband is still not fully recovered, and I am exhausted. There will be other trips home, other meals. I was lucky to have Friday with my sister as we explored the places where we grew up--our last childhood home is now a grass lot, thanks to Katrina. I enjoyed my dad’s cooking and my mom’s doting. I had squeezed in a brunch with an old friend and her daughter. Running to the pharmacy on Saturday, I even bumped into the end of a small Mardi Gras parade—a reminder of what once used to be considered normal.

With hope, everyone's health will be recovered soon and a good summer visit to New Orleans will make up for this last one. More NOLA-inspired blogs will follow soon.

And the next time you barf, please remember to open the toilet lid.

Several years ago, my sister-in-law Lisa told me a story. Both her children had had the flu, both had vomited through all clean pajamas and all clean sheets in the house. Out of desperation and exhaustion late that night, she had sat on the kitchen floor crying and holding a child in each arm while the kids continued to vomit on the floor beside her like some kind of viral fountain. She called her other sister-in-law, Jody, who lived nearby and who had children close in age. Thankfully, Jody arrived with clean sheets, clean pajamas for each child, and then helped Lisa clean up and put the kids back in bed. Everyone survived the night.


I think of this story every time my kids get the stomach flu. Last night, after a very sad sick day where both my little children had the flu, my son threw up in the doorway of his bedroom. I called his name and reached to him so that he could walk around it and throw up in the toilet of the nearby bathroom, but he didn’t make it that far. He layered the path to the bathroom with a good dose of upchuck. Meanwhile, I threw towels on the floor and directed him, saying urgently, “In the toilet, son! In the toilet!” He leaned over the toilet, its lid closed, and heaved the remains of mac’n cheese. Semi-digested dinner rebounded everywhere. I started pulling at my hair in desperation. Somehow, before I could reach him, he opened the toilet and finished the job in there.

Just when I bent down to start scrubbing the floor, I started to cry. I was almost crazy with fatigue. I had spent the day laundering sheets and clothes after vomit and diarrhea blowouts, my ears still hurt from the infections I have been fighting for weeks, and I had knelt down in a puddle of something absolutely gross. I looked at my son, remembered Lisa’s story, and started to laugh. I got enough walkway cleared to reach my son, help him clean up, and soothe him.

My husband, who had worked about an eleven-hour day, had just come home to the chaos. He stood in our bedroom doorway, asking to help, but was unable to walk forward more than two steps for all the vomit between us. He edged his way to the kids’ bathroom, peeked, laughed, and promised he would not be eating macaroni anytime soon. He waited for me to collect all newly soiled laundry and toted the load downstairs, laughing all the while about once when his youngest hurled a bellyful of spaghetti down his back.

These are the rigors of parenthood, the It’s-So-Gross-It’s-Funny moments, the little episodes that bond me with other exhausted parents. Who knew puke could forge a bond? For Lisa whose story gave me perspective when my own have been ill, I am always thankful. (Lisa used to also tell me that I would one day be absolutely grateful to sit quietly, still, and alone with a cup of coffee. Yes, Lisa, as a sister in the tribe of Motherhood, I completely understand this now.) Even before I had children, I would hear of stories of how my now husband’s former wife had gracefully handled her children’s illnesses and injuries. I was in awe of how she managed. Nearly eleven years into childrearing, I think I am managing nicely thanks to the inspiration of parents that walked the path before me. I will survive this episode of vomiting and the others to come, but it may be quite some time before I can eat a plate of macaroni and cheese.

Small Acts of Compassion

This week, I contracted the nasty stomach flu. Several hours and retchings later, I lay semi-comatose and feverish on my bed, but recovered enough to let the children see I was not dead. The youngest child, our Tiny Man, crawled up beside me, took a damp rag from the bedside, and proceeded to sponge me with it. He said he wanted to clean my eyes, my ears, check my hair, my skin. He wiped gently and murmured the entire time that I was getting better and that I was okay. He sat with me for around ten minutes, giggling and pressing his cool feet against my burning skin. He kissed my forehead, my lips, and my chest, patted me with his little cool hands.


Oh, to be loved by a child. Makes everything better.