Monday, April 11, 2011
Yesterday after lunch, I sat happily convalescing in my room, computer on my lap. The sun shone brightly through the window, and my ill husband snuggled close to me, neither happy nor convalescing. Life was good.
The bucolic peace was suddenly shattered by an awful commotion. The noise was indescribable, though I will surely try. With an underlying stampede of booted feet, the main symphony was a croaking, squawking, wheezing, gasping...something. I looked up, startled.
Damon appeared in the doorway like the Creature from the Black Lagoon, arms held out zombie-style in front of him. Indeed, he was the source of the racket, streaming a torrent of drool, snot, and another mysterious fluid.
"What happened???" we demanded as one.
Damon replied, "URRRRGHLLLLAAAAARRRRRRMMMNNNNXQQQQUYSTCHZZYZZYX!!!!"
"Spit it out - what happened?" I barked.
"Damon!" Jack finally croaked. "Is that gasoline?"
The apparition nodded. "MMMMMMMRRRRG!"
I sprang into action. Calmly dragging him by the head, I led him into the bathroom and began vigorously washing his face and the inside of his mouth with soap. The fumes were overpowering, even for me. Still, I bravely scrubbed on.
At first, he was barely able to speak, though he did manage to answer "not much" when we asked him how much he had swallowed. Sigh. "Um, Sweetheart, could you please look up and see what else we should do for him besides giving him milk?"
As his mouth got cleaner, Damon got more coherent. In a manner of speaking. "Wheeeee! I think I'm hiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh!!!!!"
A couple more minutes, and he was even able to tell us that he hadn't actually swallowed the gas at all, only gotten a mouthful of petrol and a lungful of fumes.
Then came the challenge of finding him some milk, since I haven't drunk real milk since high school. As the supervisor of the shower, on call in case Gasboy passed out, I couldn't run over to Mom and Dad's to get some, either. Rather than have to quit what he was working on and come over, Dad suggested the one milk product I did have on hand, that had slipped my mind.
And so it was that Damon, coughing and wrapped in a towel, sat eating a bowl of peanut butter cup ice cream. I couldn't help but feel that it sent the wrong message, somehow. Drink Gas, Eat Ice Cream.
Once the crisis had been dealt with, my small nephew, Bubba, had a chance to tell me his side of the story. The condensed version: "...And Damon was moving the gas from the three-wheeler to the three-wheeler and he sucked on the tube and he had me hold the tube and I said, "Damon, why not you just BUY some gas?"
The burning question we'd all like to know. Next time, Damon probably will buy some gas. That is, unless he wants some more ice cream.
Suffering from an excess of gas,
I'm not sure that came out quite right.