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I spent Easter morning in bed, only to get up to vomit. I know most if you probably think this is tied to the hybrid dinner I had last night but I can assure you it isn’t. Jeremy got me an Easter basket of Ginger ale (minus the Easter basket).

As a child, if I was sick, I got to spend the entire day in my parents’ bed. It is a location and view that is burned in my memory.

The big bed with wobbly brass-like head board. The yellow wall paper with vertical ribbon designs that gave the illusion of profiles all along the walls. Two of the profiles were that of foxes. One was a girl and one was a boy. They were married, of course.

I remember starring at the painting my mom had done of the African woman. She wore a cloth on her head but I could never tell if she was naked because her chest faded into the picture like a woman in water.

The ceiling had square tiles that I’m sure I counted although I don’t know how many there are now.

There was a small tv. When I had a double ear infection I turned the volume up the entire way so I could watch The Adventures of Mary Kate and Ashley.

A cat or two would stay in the bed with me.
One was somewhere near my head.

On the bedside table sats a plate if half eaten toast. I’m not a chicken soup girl when I’m sick. I’m a toast girl.

Today I lay with the tv off in fear that food will be mentioned in the program I watch. The walls are white because it is my responsibility to paint them. There is still a cat or two but they are not allowed in my stomach because it hurts. My bedside table contains water and ginger ale. Both are just helping me avoid dry heaves, but not really.

I hate being sick.

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