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Monday, October 17, 2011
Can't Argue with That
What am I saying? He's been sick as a wormy pup for the last five days, unable to keep any food in his gut, spewing it up just minutes after eating it. Nothing stayed down, not ice cream, not Jello, not spinach (his call!), not even water. His gullet has been like a two-way street.
Naturally, I worry. This has happened in the past, and he's ended up cradled in a bed at Touro for treatment of dehydration.
In last night's darkest hours, he's sitting up, puking into one of the little barf bags he snitched from his last hospital stay. I'm hovering over him, saying things like, "Do you want me to take you to the Emergency Room?"
"Not yet. I'll let you know when I'm really sick ... Unh!"
"Okay, but is there anything I can get you?"
"Got it. Here."
"I'll go to my doctor in the morning. Let him check me into the hospital if he thinks that's where I need to be."
"But I worry, Bobby ... "
"You worry! You don't think I worry? I worry. I worry about you! Look at yourself. You're big as a house. Unh-HUNH!"
I think to myself, He's getting better.
Now morning has broken. It's nearing ten, and so far, he's holding down the vanilla creme-filled cookies he made me go out to buy him at dawn's early light.
And I could use a drink.