My hubs returned home from a two-week work assignment where he traveled to a few distant locations, to say the least: Malaysia, Hong Kong, and Japan.
This was all well and good. We spent way too much money talking overseas when we should have done something called: Skypping. You know this is weird when auto correct doesn't know what the hell you're talking about. Technology issues aside...
He texted. I replied. I texted. He'd reply. He'd call when available using his best this-isn't -as-cool-as-it-is-because-I-know-you're-jealous-as-shit voice. Bless him. He tried. I tried not to be jealous as shit. I mean, come on. He was eating sushi from the people who invented it. I was deciding between gray meat number one or two in the school cafeteria line.
So, while he was away, I decided to work on some recipes that caught my eye earlier in the year.
One of the recipes was a butternut squash bisque with cremini mushrooms.
I slaved away--but with a smile--over that monster of a plant called a butternut squash.
Um...Quick note. You need to take steroids and then take two shots of Jameson before even attempting to dismantle--yeah, I said dismantle--a butternut squash.
That thing is a monster.
I really wished I had a step stool to give myself some leverage in cutting that bitch apart. Nevertheless, with some insane techniques and extremely sharp utensils, I managed to core and cut up the squash with all ten fingers still intact. I won't bore you with the details but this bisque was a bitch. But damn, it was really good.
The problem was that I'd made enough for the Duggar family's reunion. There was a giant pot of this business. Personally, I'd taken on multiple servings over several days, and then put an enormous Tupperware container in the freezer to share later with the hubs upon his return. I thought he'd be so impressed.
He finally came home and baring gifts, no less!
All was well. He returned to his normal routine. I returned to mine, and then after a few days of settling back in, I suggested he try some of my new bisque which I had taken out of the freezer and put DIRECTLY into the refrigerator. AKA--no counter time.
Cut to: hubs lying in agony on the bathroom floor unable to make it back to bed between bouts of intense diarrhea, painful cramping, and incessant vomiting. I come home finding this special little scene and we rush to the local emergency room with barely enough time to spare. It's pretty remarkable how puking is the equivalent of celebrity status in an ER waiting room. Velvet ropes were replaced with his own wheel chair and personal nurse to bypass all the riff-raff.
We are rushed again into another tiny little room where he's violently upchucking what appears to be nothing but butternut squash and I'm scrambling trying to find new containers to catch my vile concoction. It's so terrible that the poor wretch can't make it to the actual restroom and they bring in a portable toilet. This, friends, is when true love is tested. Yes, I wanted to vomit, but I was too busy holding the bag containing his vomit and getting the temporary toilet prepared to take notice.
This is all compounded by the fact that at this point I'm blaming my stupid, unnecessary pretentious, and potentially fatal bisque.
While waiting for hours in this tiny little space of hell for doctors and nurses to help attempt to alleviate his massive outpourings, I was able to take some notes on the human condition. In short: it's bad. It's really bad. Oh, and George Clooney was not there.
He was never there and no one who ever looked like him will EVER be there.
The best you could get would be an extra on a Will and Grace episode--not that I'm complaining. (I loved our gay nurse.) That would certainly beat the mentally unstable fella next door screaming that they were all trying to kill him and asking "is this really happening?" as the pain medication began to finally take effect.
Trust me, pal. We were all wondering if this was happening and I was, unfortunately, drug free.
Finally, after hours of liquids coming out, and then liquids going in, an actual doctor arrives. Just when I thought nothing could phase me --I'd seen way too much of my husband's personal issues at this point--an actual hobbit walks into our personal hell of a hospital corner. He very politely extends his little hand introducing himself and moving on to the patient, but honestly, all I could think of was how was it possible for someone so small to be a doctor?
He barely cleared my waist.
And then the shame--I'm a terrible person. (For the love of God, I've almost killed my own husband) But for the life of me I couldn't pay attention to his questions, and then what he was giving my own husband in the way of medication. Finally I had to collect myself, swallow my judgment and ask him to please repeat the medications again. Terrible.
And then the hubs sleeps. And then I obsess over how I've almost killed my husband in less than two year of marriage.
I'm allowed ample time to travel this downward spiral since we spent about ten hours there.
Later that night we are finally allowed to attempt actual liquid rather than that from an IV. It's a blue Powerade. Dr. Hobbit provided explicit instructions about how much and how often. If this takes, then we are allowed to go home to all that is good and pure in the world (minus the fucking bisque).
I think to myself that maybe we can go home tonight.
Maybe this was just a bad night, but he can sleep it off.
Maybe.... and that's when the poor man begins to throw up again.
This time it's blue.
So, the hubs is going to have to spend the night in the hospital. But it isn't until 3 in the morning that he's finally admitted and moved to an actual room with a real bed and a really big bathroom--they know what's up. (And REAL cable--holla!)
By this time I'm finally seeing George Clooney in my hunger and sleep deprivation.
And yes, he was diagnosed with gastroenteritis, or more commonly known as a really bad stomach bug, which sounds so anticlimactic given the nature of the event. And, no--apparently it wasn't the bisque since there wasn't any opportunity for it to actually go bad. But bad it was... oh, so bad.
But it certainly was a time to reflect on how much I love this man, how much I need to learn about cooking, and how much I need to memorize his social security number--in cases of emergency.
Or, when my cooking does actually end up killing him.