During the fall of 1999, my husband and I took our daughter Madison to the Wurzberg Hospital for her umpteenth appointment to fix the problems she developed as a result of salmonella poisoning in 1997. We lived about two hours away, near Vilseck, Germany, where Kurt was stationed at the time. These hospital trips often turned into daylong affairs complete with shopping at the new PX and eating out. I often took our son Thomas out of school to come with us.
When it was decided to eat at the new Taco Bell (my husband is a huge fan of taco salad), I was out of luck, because I don't eat meat. But I had no problem waiting. I sat with my family as they ate, and then asked to stop at this new little Chinese restaurant situated right outside the PX gate after we left. Very quickly I saw there were no vegetarian dishes, so I asked the woman behind the counter for kung pao chicken and lo mein without the meat. She wrote NO MEAT in big block letters on the ticket, turned it in, and then talked to me for five minutes while pots and pans banged around in the back. Smoke billowed out of the doorway. It smelled pretty damned good. She said business was great, and they had many repeat customers. I took this to be a good sign.
When my meals came out, she bagged them and bade me a safe trip back to Tanzfleck. I got in the backseat because Thomas wanted to ride up front, anticipating my meal on wheels. I opened my dinner as we pulled onto the Autobahn. It was just as it should be: CHOCK FULL of chicken. Par for the course for this day. Already this day Madison had thrown a tantrum, I had thrown a tantrum, Kurt and I got into a fight outside the German Christmas store, and Taco Bell had no meatless stuff; so naturally my Chinese food was exactly not as I requested it to be: full of my friends. Whaddya' gonna' do?
Well, I had to make the best of it. I ate around the chicken, picking out the rest of the stuff. Then, to make myself feel better about the day, I drank a Budweiser on the way home. "Budweiser, a part of living..."
I began to feel rather unsettled around 8:00 PM. Madison brought me one of her doll blankets and covered my shoulders as I lay on the living room couch. Probably because she wanted to watch my intestinal torment, she set about surrounding me with Beanie Babies, then went over to her toybox and picked up her new babydoll, looking at me like I wasn't playing the game correctly. She brought more dolls over and seemed pleased. Around nine, feeling rather guilty about breaking the Beanie circle, I went upstairs and threw up for the first time. It was white and foamy, and it smelled just wrong, dead wrong. But it made me feel better.
The relief didn't last long. Thirty minutes later I began to feel nauseated again. And I had to poop very, very badly, too; worse than I had to vomit.
Feeling I might find some sort of refuge in our upstairs bedroom bathroom, I went there to do my business, crank a Hankey, or whatever; I dropped my pants to find I had to go more than I realized. The first chunks were solid, but they seemed to be running away from what followed after, which was a thick, soupy mess of God knows what. It shot from my ass with a purpose. At this point, I thought I was going to vomit again, so I quickly cleaned up the backdoor lava factory and turned around just in time to projectile puke over the bowl's initial inhabitants. My first thought was, "Oh shit. It's going to splatter in my face." This made me sicker. I pulled up as I vomited, which made me swallow some, leaving a good amount in my nose when the second wave erupted.
For me, on this night, there was no mercy in the Heavens.
I cleaned up, brushed my teeth, and wobbled to the bed, which was thankfully only eight feet from the toilet. I think I lay there for another twenty minutes until I felt my innards rumbling horribly, making noises that convinced me I needed to get up right then. I ran back to the bathroom and sat down just in time. Another stream shot from my poor, poor bunghole, which was already complaining about the velocity of my colon's ammunition. I realized I was about to throw up again.
"Kurt!! Bring the green bucket up here! Now, please!!!"
No answer.
"Honey, bring me the bucket!"
I had to stop yelling because it hurt my stomach. Puke was right at the back of my throat. I swallowed , which, incidentally, was not a good idea. Kurt came into the bedroom carrying my bucket, stopped in the doorway to the bathroom, and said, "You're really that sick?" in a voice that was really saying, "Oh shit, I have to take care of the kids."
Oh, I have such audacity!
I grabbed the bucket, mumbled fuck you very much and threw up into it as I shat myself.
"Go. Now." I ordered him. Then I slammed the door in his face before I let out the next heave. That's gratitude for ya'.
Ah, marriage!
The entire night consisted of me crawling on my hands and knees from the bathroom to the bedroom to the bathroom. I threw up every hour until seven or eight the next morning. Finally, as day broke, I thought I would attempt to keep something down. Kurt brought me a Red Racer Popsicle brand Ice Treat. It was the best damned Italian Ice I'd ever had in my life. Nothing will ever taste as good as that little yellow and red car on a stick. It slid down my poor throat to my raw stomach, and soothed every inch. Tears of blessed peace fell from my eyes.
(Later that week, I wrote to the popsicle company, swearing my everlasting allegiance; they sent me a personally typed letter thanking us for our military service and gave me eight free coupons. I love that company.)
I told Kurt I loved him, too, and slept for twenty whole minutes.
Twelve hundred seconds later I awoke to that familiar rumbling in my lower abdomen, signaling I had about two seconds to get back to the bathroom. I obeyed the command. And that was when "it" happened.
"It" came out slower than the other liquidy streams; but it was hot, and it burned, bad. My bumhole screamed. I winced, attempting not to move too much because the stuff on my ass seemed to be pure acid, and every time I moved, it covered more of me.
When I was sure I was done, I wiped very gingerly, going to look at what was below. I wondered if the lights were playing a trick on me. The toilet paper was stained with thick streams of green. Now, I mean GREEN -- as in Toxic Avenger green. I whirled around and looked in the toilet; and what I saw sent chills down my spine. How, I wondered, could this be happening? Peering down into the toilet, I was terrified. The entire bowl was the brightest, most unnatural green that I have ever seen. The closest I can come to accurately describing it is to say it looked like the green slime from Ghostbusters. It almost glowed, I swear to God.
Of course I wanted to show it to my husband, but he wanted nothing to do with it. He had been avoiding the bedroom all night. He knows I'm one of those people who crawl into a dark, quiet place when I'm sick, and that I'll bite anything that pokes its fingers in like a wounded wolverine. So no one else ever saw it.
I pooped this green abomination two more times later that day. The following Monday, I saw a doctor. He told me some food-borne bacteria can create significantly colored waste. Well, no shit, I thought. He also told me the reason I got so sick was that the Chinese place probably didn't warm their woks up enough past the boiling temperature, thus allowing any germs to survive and multiply.
After we moved to Fort Knox, a friend from Germany told me the Chinese restaurant had closed. I often wonder if I was the only person who came home sick that fateful night -- the only person who shat the Green Death. As much as misery loves company, I sincerely hope so.
It also was the last time I ever left any restaurant before checking my order. I have learned my lesson.
-- Daphne
