March 20, 2010; Health

It was not a pretty sight, two days ago. Skeeter was feeling atrocious as was I. I hadn't eaten normally in a couple of days and he was all anxious about his health and about this new antibiotic treatment he's on—hoping against hope this one would work and close the fucking wound he's had for over 15 months. Let's just say we weren't a happy duo.

He did my afternoon walk, downed his pain killer and then settled down to watch TV. Before he could relax, though, he was up and running for the bathroom and heaving and hurling and making all those oh-so-pleasant noises that make you want to join in for the chorus. He came out of the bathroom looking green and beaten and tried to eat some crackers. As he always does, he handed one down to me. That's when it happened: that cracker did not look tasty, it did not smell yummy and before you know it, I was turning my head away and heaving onto the floor.

After he tidied it up we just both died a little; settling into the La-Z-Boy hoping that the world would stop twirling about and that the winds in our heads would settle down to a dull roar.

"Do you think you made me sick," I asked, "or I made you sick?"

"I don't know if they're connected."

"Or more like: you dragged some hideous germ back from that clinic you go to three times a week and we're all going to die of Ebola or some fucking thing."

"Look, I cleaned up your mess and it wasn't any Ebola. It was leaves and crap and the usual shit you stick your nose into and eat without thinking."

"You should fucking talk," I bitched, "you do the walk with me, take a pain-killer on an empty stomach, then sit there for an hour smoking and drinking coffee, all on an empty stomach. Doesn't sound exactly like a health regime to me."

"Fuck you—"

"—and you with sugar on it." And we were quiet for a while and watched CNN. "You know what I like about the Americans?" I said, "they have their priorities straight."

"Hm?" he said.

"You can get a full insurance policy, in the US, for your dog or—heaven forbid!—your cat. So what the hell does it matter if you can't get insurance for your kids!"

He looked down at me and said, "You're an evil little thing."

Meanwhile, spring has sprung which means it's shorts season and Skeeter is back to walking into trees and lamp-posts as he stares, rather hungrily, at all the guys in their Spandex. "Look," I told him as we walked along and no one else could hear, "I don't mind you noticing every fucking hairy-legged gorilla who runs by, but you have got to control the things you say under your breath—"

"—No more, 'Hubba-hubba'?" and he laughed.

"That's not the one that worries me. I was thinking more when you whisper, 'What's your name, little boy?'"

He laughed and said, "You know, I have no idea how I got into that habit!"

"Well break it, it's creepy."

"Well, just bite my ankle next time," he said.

"Never you fear."

Boo-Boo is all over the place which means when we see him we don't see him. He's a basket case of nerves and end-of-semester hysteria. When he's on a tear, both Skeeter and I know to keep a low profile and just nod and smile. The real problem is he's a pain in the ass to sleep with as he is always tossing and turning and getting out of bed and getting back in, and tossing some more. I sleep as far at the end and on the corner of the bed as I can so that this doesn't bother me as much, but sometimes, when he is trying to settle down, he drags me up to his shoulder in the bed and cuddles me. This sounds nice and I do get a few winks, but before long he's bed-surfing again and all hope of deep sleep is lost.

Hey! That might be why I'm sick!

Or then of course, it could be the plastic, branches, dead leaves and dirty snow I eat, as Skeeter said.