A Thanksgiving Story, Gross

I have successfully escaped New York City and am now at my Brother's new apartment in Stamford. We laughed pretty much non-stop for the first hour I arrived, but now I am content to leave him to his pride and joy, something called NBA League Pass, and do some blogging. Staying with my brother has already been a trip and a half that multiple blog posts and possibly several sessions of analysis should be devoted to. Also, it seems that I have come down with a major cold, so I am looking forward to knocking myself out with some NyQuil soon and collapsing in LittleBrother's bed as he has nobly offered to take the couch.

All week long I have really been looking forward to Thanksgiving, which makes sense, it is, afterall, my favorite holiday. But today I just remembered why I am really hard-up for a good Thanksgiving: my family didn't have Thanksgiving last year, and I was the reason why. I was the Grinch who stole Thanksgiving.

Last year, I took the Amtrak in from New York on Wednesday night. We were all set to go to my Aunt's house the next day and have a big Thanksgiving with all my cousins and their families. My father was bringing the Antipasto and Italian Wedding Soup. When I finallly got home, close to eleven o'clock at night, I was not feeling very good, but I thought it was a migrane coming on and so I just went to bed. Then, sometime early on Thanksgiving morning, around 3am I awoke feeling really miserable. I went to the bathroom and sat on the toilet. Then, while I was sitting on the toilet, I was totally overcome and started vomitting all over the bathroom floor. After a couple rounds of that, I was able to get up and puke some more into the toilet. I could tell I was feverish, dehydrated and a total disaster. Later I would learn that i had brought home some terrible stomach flu that was spreading through Brooklyn. I could barely stand up, and in fact, desired death. Worse, there was vomit all over the main bathroom in the house and I knew I was powerless to do anything about it. So, I somehow dragged myself into my father's room. Remember, at the time this story is taking place I was 23 years old (and my father was 56); the point is, each of us hoped the time of me waking him in the night to tell him I was sick was long behind us.

Lamely I went to the side of his bed and mummered "Dad.... dad!" He startled awake. I'm pretty certain I looked like a zombie and smelled worse. "I'm sick. I threw up all over the bathroom. I'm sorry."

I don't remember the first thing my father said, if he cursed, or asked if I was okay. But he got out of bed, in his shorts, and went to clean the bathroom. He tucked me into bed, I was freezing cold and burning with feever at the same time. He brought me a bucket for the side of my bed and asked that next time, could I please make it to the toilet. I felt really sorry, but again, my condition was so despictable, part of me was also praying for the sweet release of death. I got up again in the middle of the night to ralph some more but I made it to the toilet like a champ.

Thanksgiving morning I was able to lay on the couch and drift in and out of consciousness. I tried telling my Dad and Brother they should go to my Aunt's house without me, but my Dad said they would all stay home. Later my Dad swung by to drop off the soup and antipasto. I don't really remember what my Dad and Brother did that day, but every time I came to, I mumbled about being "so sorry" and "the Grinch". Later that day, my brother got sick but never had the plague quite as bad as I did.

And that's it. By Saturday I was well enough to go to my Aunt's house for leftovers but the post-traumatic puke-o-rama stress left me a little shy of the food. Sunday I was on my way back to the city because Monday morning I was starting my fancy new job at Die Bank. So you see, I really have to make up for lost time tomorrow. When you think about it, I'm eating for two.