I Can’t Stand The Carnage
I pretended to be sick a lot as a kid, to get attention or whatever. It eventually caused this whole “she who cried sick” thing in my household. But, I want to start this story out with the vow that at this moment in time, I was genuinely down, bad, fever ridden and sick. Laying on the couch, maybe even my death bed, begging for some comfort. A blanket? A pillow? A moistened toilette? Anything to ease the pain of this particular illness I had contracted.
First, I asked my brother, Michael, but he had been a fool too many times to my sick games and thus told me to get it myself. Not that I expected much more than that. Play a man too many times a fool and eventually they won’t do shit for you anymore. A good lesson all of us damsels should do best to learn. Thank god for my mother though, for she took pity on me. Not enough pity to go gather the things I need herself, but pity enough to summon my father from the second floor. She called him expressing the needs that I required. And as she waited for those items to be bestowed upon her she decided to have a sit on the bottom stair for the kitty looked like he was in need of some lovin’. She scooped him up, plopped him in her lap and began to stroke him under his chin. Neither her, nor Mr. Biscuit had any idea what would happen next.
My father has never been the type to respond well when told what to do. He gripes that it usually has more to do with the tone in which said task is demanded. And apparently, that particular day the tone wasn’t pleasing. Regardless, he gathered some blankets and my favorite pillow. And from his angle, he tossed the load down the stairs - aiming to land behind my mother. A little bit of an over - shot and thus erupted the perfect storm.
One frisky feline, an oblivious mother, and an overthrown bundle of blankets became one big cotton tornado of screams, fur, and inevitably blood. It was like trying to climb out of a grave but you don’t know which way is up. The cat was clawing at anything it could get its grubby paws on, clasping to stay alive. What lasted minutes must have felt like hours for the two of them. Eventually, they both sprung freedom from the blanket cocoon of doom. One of them is worse for the wear than the other. My poor mother.
Her screams were enough to alert us that something was very wrong - in fact I'm sure they were enough to alert the entire neighborhood that something was wrong but that is neither here nor there. My brother went racing to her aid only to immediately retreat back into the kitchen trying to catch the projectile vomit pushing its way through his clasped fingers. His fingers were no match - vomit. Got. everywhere. He raced out the back door as my mother raced over to the sink. All that I could see from my spot on the couch was a steady flow of blood from her mouth into the drain. I yelled for my father as he walked in to see what all the ruckus was about.
After closer examination it was decided that my mother needed to go to the hospital - it really didn’t need that much examination seeing as how her lip was split completely in half. Michael immediately bowed out of taking her, expressing that he ‘couldn’t stand the carnage’. Thus, my father loaded her up as she muttered sweet “this is your faults” in his ear on the way to the car and I'm sure all the way to the hospital.
My mother got 42 stitches and a wonky taste bud. Biscuit had to be quarantined for 10 days to make sure he didn’t have rabies. Michael I’m pretty sure just retired to his room for the evening to decompress from all the drama. My dad has quite literally never been able to forget it. And me? Well, I’m still waiting on those blankets, pillows, and moistened toilettes.
