Memoir: Christmas 2009 by Tara Roberts
We continue Our Write Side Family Christmas this weekend, sharing a short Christmas memory from our talented photographer and resident word hoarder, Tara Roberts.
Tara Roberts (pronounced Tar-ah and with a southern drawl) lives and plays on the Florida Gulf Coast. A former print news and online media reporter, she now spends her days roaming the woods and beaches of the Panhandle talking to herself, penning eclectic fiction, and taking photographs. She can be found most days at “Thin Spiral Notebook” trying to quiet the voices in her head. She also writes A Way With Words lessons and shares her photography as visual prompts on The Darkroom here on Our Write Side every week.
It was Christmas Eve 2009. My daughter was home from college, and her dad and I were looking forward to having our little family together for the holidays. This year, Christmas was on a Friday. That Thursday night, I went to bed early because I was feeling a tad flu-ish.
I could never quite get comfortable, and as the night dragged on, the sicker I felt. By 4 a.m. Christmas morning the puke fest began. It was all the hangover from hell without having anything to drink.
When our kids got up later that morning, I shuffled into the living room hugging a trash can and looking like death warmed over. After all the presents were opened, I went back to my misery, and spent the rest of the day lying prostate on my bed, or on the bathroom floor hugging the toilet.
When the red-hot poker began stabbing me in the side, I thought it would be a good idea to call the “Nurse Hotline” printed on the back of my medical insurance card. Listing my symptoms to the on-call nurse, she agreed that it was time to go to the Emergency Room.
So, Christmas evening I found myself in the hospital in more pain than I had ever experience before or since.
For future reference, if you spend 12 hours throwing up, you will be dehydrated, and it will make it difficult for medical personnel to insert an IV needle. A CAT scan confirmed that my appendix was the culprit for my misery, and early Saturday morning I was wheeled into surgery.
It is a Christmas I won’t soon forget, and fortunately will never be repeated. However, I did get a couple of pairs of ugly, baby-poop brown, fuzzy socks out of the adventure.