So. Adorable. Mustn't. Kill.

Around 2 am Sunday night, I found myself resting on the bathroom floor, covered in a couple old bath towels like they were blankets. By resting, I mean hyperventilating and shaking uncontrollably. Because that's fun. When you're the kind of sick that makes it impossible to just stay in bed because no matter what position you try, you're still in immense pain.

Not to mention you're worried you might throw up all over the linens and then you know you'll have to do laundry and remake the bed, but the washer is downstairs. You ask yourself how are you going to make it all the way downstairs when you can't even hobble 6 inches from the bathroom to where the blankets are kept, hence the bath towels... Don't even start me thinking about my ability to remake a king size bed in this condition.

In other words, too sick to be in bed.

So, bathroom floor. Give myself a small mental kudos for just buying those Laura Ashley bath mats on clearance on Kohls.com sight unseen. The hubby said when we put them out last week, "I think these are too nice to use. I don't feel like I should walk on them."

At this moment in the middle of the night, the mat on the toilet seat lid is impressing me the most, since I am on my back on the floor with my feet up on the closed, carpeted lid. So that I can continue enjoying consciousness. Because that's what I'm doing. Enjoying it.

4 am the husband rises. Stands in the hall, taking in all the prettiness. Sighs. I look at him with my eyes but can't move my body at the moment.

"Honey?" He rubs his face.

"Hi," I say, like this all normal.

I feel a little like one of those pictures in a haunted mansion with the eyes that move. I decide my best bet is to not mention that I am trying not to use any neck, head, or facial muscles. Maybe he won't notice. I definitely know better than to move any limbs, since they're shaking rather forcefully. I tell myself it's all because I just fight nausea with all that I am. If there is a cell in my body that I can use to stop myself from throwing up, then I use it. I just can't deal with the whole being unable to breath thing. At one point about an hour ago, I'm pretty sure my body said, "Pass out or throw up, Dumbass" and I picked pass out.

Keep it inside, I tell myself, meaning don't tell the hubby any of this but also, hey, you've done so awesome so far at not throwing up, double meaning motivational speech!

The dog is still sound asleep on the bed. She has not given a crap all night, which I am trying not to take personally. However, always somehow the equalizers, 4 or 5 cats are randomly around me, all sitting up and looking around, nonchalant. Caring but not caring. Also enjoying the plushness of the bathmats, since not one of them is on any tile.

The hubby gets ready for work and says he is going to Walmart first for some anti-nausea over the counters and Ginger Ale. I beg for Sprite. For some reason, when I tell him not to get Ginger Ale, the normal go-to in the house, because "it's too spicy, I can't handle it right now", he gives me a really quizzical look.

What? It's way too ginger-y. I'll never keep it down, I thought. THAT IS NOT WEIRD AT ALL. YOU'RE THE WEIRD ONE, HUSBAND, FOR NOT GETTING THIS. DUH.

Something about his face made me keep this to myself although I felt incredibly confident in my mental state. This is when he started offering to stay home with me.

I'm starting to feel well enough to get back in bed. Which is heaven.

See! I'm totally fine! Sort of!

I manage to convince him to go to work. I feel guilty enough that he's already been caregiver extraordinaire of the day by 5 am.

He goes to work after I promise several times that no matter how much better I feel later, I shouldn't, say, get on the roof and clean out the gutters today. I should rest and take it easy.

I promise upteen times and he leaves for work.

I feel better but do not move large pieces of furniture or steam clean the carpets. I sit on the couch and watch television, thinking about how lucky I am.

That's when the phone rings. Because someone is at work, on a busy Monday, calling to check on me at home.