I help her into the bathroom and wipe her face. She rinses her mouth out when I hand her a Dixie cup of water, swishing and spitting. I’m just about to walk her back to bed when Josh runs through the doorway and barfs at our feet, spraying us both. The sight and smell of all that tomato soup in reverse triggers my gag reflex, and it’s only sheer will that keeps me from spontaneously emptying the contents of my own stomach.

I move Jordan out of the way and position Josh’s head over the toilet. Reaching over, I turn on the shower and strip off Jordan’s nightgown. Once I settle her under the spray I rub Josh’s back and wait until he’s finished. I flush the toilet and close the lid. “Sit here,” I say. I pull back the shower curtain and make sure Jordan is clean, then wrap her in a fluffy towel. “Get in the shower, Josh. I’m going to take Jordan to her room.” He nods his head and strips off his pajama shirt. Jordan is almost asleep by the time I tuck her in. I quickly clean the bathroom floor, pull the puke-filled plastic liner out of her garbage can, and walk it down to the garage.

Josh is out of the shower and standing in the hallway, wrapped in a towel.

“Let’s get some clean pajamas,” I say.

He follows me into his room. I place the back of my hand against his forehead, but he’s only a little warm. I decide to hold off on the Motrin in case he’s not done vomiting. “Do you think you can go back to sleep?” I ask.

He nods and I give him a quick hug. He’ll want privacy to change, so I tell him to come get me if he feels sick again.

I strip off my own clothes in the master bathroom and take a quick shower. My laundry pile will be astronomical tomorrow, but I’ll worry about that in the morning. Clean and dry, I burrow under the covers and fall asleep. I awaken a while later and glance at the clock: 4:00 A.M.

My stomach churns and I have just enough time to sprint toward the bathroom before everything comes up.

 • • •

In the morning, the kids are lethargic and feverish but I’m temporarily spared more vomiting because neither of them will eat. I don’t blame them. I force down what I have to in order to keep my blood sugar steady and wait to see if it was a bad idea. I throw it right back up. I text Chris to give him an update on the kids and he writes back expressing his concern and asking me to keep him posted.

Daniel texts me a short time later. How is everything going?

We’re all sick now. I’m placing our house under quarantine.

He texts back immediately. Is there anything I can do?

No thanks. We’ll be fine. It just has to run its course.

The kids and I spend the day cuddled together on the large sectional in the family room. The washing machine runs around the clock because the vomiting has resumed and Josh and Jordan do not always grab the garbage can or make it to the bathroom in time. Around 8:00 P.M., I tuck the kids into bed and hope they both sleep through the night.

I feel awful. I can’t keep anything down, so I have to keep adjusting my insulin. I’m so incredibly thirsty but the water comes right back up when I try to drink it. I haven’t eaten anything in almost twenty-four hours. It’s been years since I had the stomach flu, and I’ve forgotten how miserable it can be.

When I walk downstairs Tucker is standing by the front door, waiting for me to let him out. I open it and notice the bag sitting on the front steps. Curious, I open it up and spot a six-pack of Diet 7Up, saltines, and a bottle of Children’s Motrin. I smile because I know who left it.

I send Daniel a text. Thank you.

He responds five minutes later. You’re welcome.

I won’t be able to come tomorrow. I’m sorry.

That’s okay. Just take care of yourself. I’ll see you when you’re feeling better.

By the time Chris walks in the door the following evening, the kids are over the worst of it. He finds them sprawled on the couch, eating crackers and sipping juice, Disney Channel blaring.

He gives them a hug, smoothing back Jordan’s hair and squeezing Josh’s shoulder. “You guys feeling better?” he asks.

They answer in unison, “Yes.”

Chris looks over at me. I’m barely holding my eyes open because I haven’t slept more than a few hours at a time in the last twenty-four.

“You look really tired, Claire.”

I nod. It takes all the energy I have.

He peers at me closely, realization dawning on his face. “Did you have it, too?”

“Yes.” I still have it. I haven’t been able to eat anything today and my raging thirst drives me to drink even though I know it will only come right back up.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.

I answer honestly. “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t think there was any way you could come home.” Now that I know the kind of scrutiny Chris is under, I’m more sympathetic to the amount of work he’s responsible for. “I would have called my mom if I couldn’t handle it.” I can tell by his expression that the words hurt a little.

He sighs, blowing out a breath as he looks around the living room. “There are more important things than work,” he says softly. He loosens his tie and sits down on the couch next to Jordan, stroking her hair. He looks at me. “Go lie down.”

He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I go upstairs and slip under the covers, but thirty seconds later I hurry to the bathroom because I have to throw up again. After I rinse my mouth I fill a cup at the bathroom sink and drink it down, trying desperately to quench my thirst. My lips are cracked and the inside of my mouth is so dry I can barely swallow. I just want to drink, drink, drink until I can’t hold any more. My digestive system rejects the water almost immediately and I throw up in the sink. After I wipe my mouth with a towel I sink to the floor, resting my head against the bathroom wall, breathing rapidly. I pull out my pump and check my blood glucose. I blink because there’s no way that number is right. It’s way too high.

I tell myself that I have to stand up, to find the strength to walk downstairs and let Chris know that something is really wrong.

52

claire

I open my eyes and squint because the lights above my head are blinding. My throat feels scratchy and sore and at first when I try to speak no words will come out. Lifting my head from the pillow takes a herculean effort and halfway through it my mom says, “Claire!”

I hear her, but I can’t see her. She’s somewhere off to the right, just out of reach of my peripheral vision, and my movement has apparently startled her. I let my head drop back down onto the pillow as she takes my hand in hers.

“Claire.” Chris’s voice sounds just as worried and frantic as my mom’s. He leans over the bed and tries to draw me into his embrace, which is difficult because I’m still flat on my back.

I’ve never been so confused in my life.

There are IV needles taped to the back of both hands and the strong antiseptic smell alone is enough to confirm that I’m in the hospital. But that’s really all I know for sure.

“Do you want some water?” Chris asks.

I nod and he helps me sit up. He holds the glass and puts the bendy straw in my mouth. It’s heavenly. He lays me back down when I’m done.

“DKA?” I ask.

Chris nods, his expression grim. “Yes. You’re in the ICU.”

Diabetic ketoacidosis is a potentially life-threatening condition that can develop in people who have type 1 diabetes. I didn’t realize that the vomiting—one of the main symptoms of DKA—was no longer due to my stomach flu but rather because my blood sugar had reached a critically high level. It had happened to me once before, when I was twelve years old and first diagnosed. If Chris hadn’t found me in time, I could have fallen into a coma, or worse.