Beech Tree News Network

It all started last Thursday.  My granddaughter, Sabria, began vomiting.  By 7:30 p.m., her mom, Natalie, and I were headed to the emergency room.  We did the whole sit-in-the-waiting-room thing for two hours, then the sit-in-room-13 thing for two more hours before we saw a doctor.  During the interim, the attending nurse wanted to make sure Sabria wasn’t keeping fluids down, so she gave her some grape Gatorade.  Fifteen minutes later, I was now wearing the grape Gatorade, and the nurse determined that Sabria really couldn’t keep fluids down—nothing like the old scientific method.  After chest and stomach x-rays, it was determined that Sabria had the wicked virus that is going around, and we were all sent home after midnight with some melt-away tablets to help with the vomiting, which I was still wearing, albeit, it was now dried and stuck to my arms and chest.
    Fast forward to Saturday morning, when I woke up in a chipper mood, with great expectations of all I would accomplish that day, and the knowledge that Saturday night was the opening of the NASCAR season, complete with the new Gen 6 car.  Life was good.  After my paper route, I took care of Sabria until Natalie got home from work.  I started to feel a bit queasy about noon, but wrote it off to some sausage I’d fixed for breakfast.  I had my usual afternoon coffee break and snacked around the rest of the day like I always do.  I made arrangements to watch the race with my friends, Bobby and Dean Hampton, at their house, because I knew Sabria would be whining about not getting to watch Dora, and I wanted Kyle Busch to have my undivided attention.
    Around 4 p.m., while I was drying my hair, I felt like someone hit me in the back of the head with a 2X4.  I told Garey I was going to lie down and to wake me at 6, so I could get ready to go over to the Hamptons.  At 6, I told Garey to call the Hamptons and cancel for me because I wasn’t feeling too well, and I didn’t want to take anything in on them.  I told Garey to wake me when the race began, and I would watch it from the couch in the living room.  In order to put this into perspective, you have to understand that I’ve often told Garey that if I’m ever too sick to watch NASCAR, just go ahead and call Smith or Jones.  Garey came back to wake me for the race, and I told him I was too sick to drag myself to the couch to watch.  I spent the next forty-five minutes listening for the sound of the hearse in my driveway.
    Around midnight, I decided death would have been more pleasant and was sorry that Rachel and Marty had missed their window of opportunity.  Sunday morning was no better.  Garey got up and did the paper route by himself—we usually run it together—and was starting to feel a bit queasy by the time he finished.  When I’m sick, I travel in my sleep.  I’m always going somewhere, usually other countries.  I saw English Bulldogs in London, sitting at desks, and rattlesnakes coiled up into Celtic knots in Scotland.  I made several trips to Krispy Kreme Doughnuts—my comfort food of choice—and I kept circling back around to deliver a Sunday paper to Teresa Woodcock.  When I woke from my travels, I remembered why.   I had just added her to the weekend route and I forgot to tell Garey.  (Sorry your paper was late, Teresa.)
    It is presently Tuesday, at noon.  I still feel like I’ve been run over by a truck, but since misery loves company, I decided to share my sorrows with you.  Just a word of advice, if you haven’t already come into contact with this evil, get yourself some garlic, a cross, and some holy water, for good measure.  Lock yourself inside your house, and open the door for no one, not even Kyle Busch.