Pippa’s Sick Day

* trigger warning for vomit

It all started when I was ripped from my sleep by someone shaking my arm.

“Pippa? Come on Pip, wake up. How are you feeling? Are you hungry?” a soft voice asked.

My head was pounding, and my heavy eyelids refused to open. I didn’t know where I was, or what was happening. Every part of me felt heavy with weakness. A light switched on, and I groaned, but I was too tired to do much else about it. I longed to surrender to the darkness that was pulling at me.

I don’t know how much time had passed when I felt a hand brush across my forehead. 

“Pip, it’s time for more medicine, but you need to eat something first. Wake up, sweetheart,” the voice said.

Mom. The voice was my mom’s. My eyelids slowly lifted and her blurry face came into view.

“Mama!” I whispered.

She wiped my cheeks and forehead with a cool washcloth. I raised my head and tried to look around. The room was spinning, but I could tell that I was on the comfy couch in the family room. The cushions were covered by a bed sheet, and I was wrapped in a fuzzy gray blanket, with a pillow beneath my head. I still wasn’t sure how I had gotten here.

The exertion of lifting my head was too much, and I had to lay back on the pillow and close my eyes again. My brain pounded harder, and a wave of nausea washed over me. 

“Pippa, I need you to wake up and eat something so you can take your medicine,” mom reminded me.

My stomach churned as my mind flashed back to the pharmacy and the roast beef sandwich that I had vomited all over the floor. I’d been standing in line with my dad, waiting to pick up my medicine, because I had strep throat, yet again. It took longer to get the prescription than it should have, with the pharmacist just coming back from his lunch break. The ticking of the clock on the wall seemed deafening as my mouth began to water, my breathing got faster, and I felt panic. Before I could tell my dad that I was going to be sick, I was spewing projectile puke everywhere. Each heave brought up a mouthful of putrid, burning liquid. When it was over, tiny pieces of partially digested roast beef dotted the floor, the wall, and my shirt. The rancid smell made the other customers cover their noses, and a few even left the building.

The pharmacist promised to hurry my prescription along after that, but Dad took me out to the car to wait anyway. I crawled into the backseat, a plastic bag on my lap in case I needed to be sick again, and fell right to sleep. I didn’t even have enough energy to be mortified about what had just happened. Dad must have gone in to get the medicine without me, and someone must have carried me inside the house when we got back home.

Mom helped me sit up and brought a glass to my lips. 

“Drink, Pippa,” she instructed.

I wanted to do as she asked, but as soon as the water hit my tongue, I started gagging, and crying.

“Mom, I just don’t feel good,” I sobbed.

I was burning with fever, but also shivering with chills.

My mom wiped my tears and kissed the top of my head.

“I know, Pip. This will help you feel better,” she promised.

She brought a spoonful of chicken broth to my lips and waited for me to sip. I could only manage a couple spoonfuls before I was overcome by pain, and exhaustion. I put my head back on the pillow and closed by eyes. I was drifting in and out of sleep when I heard the slurping of a medicine dropper.  

“Pippa, you need to take your medicine. Can you sit up and swallow this, please?” Mom asked.

I groaned as she propped me up. Mom squirted the chalky, pink liquid into a medicine cup and handed it to me. I brought the cup to my mouth and drank it as fast as I could, in an attempt to avoid tasting the sickly sweet flavor that was masking something bitter. 

“Take a drink of water,” Mom urged me.

She handed me the same glass from earlier, and I sipped it.  Mom encouraged me to have more, but I couldn’t do it. Then she covered me with the blanket, and I gave in to my body’s need to rest.

The night was long, and I tossed and turned after sleeping hard for several hours. I was sweaty and chilled, and tired but restless. Mom came in to check on me every couple of hours, always offering food, or drink.

At three in the morning, I managed to locate the tv remote. Grabbing it off of the coffee table and pressing the button used up most of my energy, so I didn’t even bother changing the channel. I zoned out to an infomercial about a laundry stain remover.

I fell back to sleep just as the man on the tv was about to test the stain remover on a white t shirt that was stained with grape juice. When I woke up later that morning, I could tell my fever was gone. The sun was shining, and birds were singing outside the big bay window. The heaviness that was weighing me down the day before had lifted. 

I sat up and realized that I was hungry. I felt like I hadn’t eaten in days. I shuffled over to the kitchen, where Mom was making pancakes.

“Good morning, Pippa. Are you hungry? You look like you’re feeling better,” Mom said.

I pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. Mom set a plate of pancakes in front of me. I poured maple syrup over the whole stack and dug right in. After I’d eaten a few bites, Mom brought a medicine cup with that chalky pink liquid over to me.

“Im glad to see that your appetite is back,” she said.

I drank the medicine without her asking, and finished all the pancakes on my plate.