“I Hate the Devil…”

I’m still recuperating from the “I’m not sick” game, so today’s post will be short and silly.

Growing up I thought the devil was the cause of all of the bad things in the world: bee stings on the bottom of your foot, headaches that appeared out of nowhere, the deaths of small animals.

Now picture a preschool-sized me throwing up into the toilet. It might have been food poisoning or some kind of nasty virus. I no longer remember.  Between heaves  I sat up, looked my mother in the face, and declared, “I hate the devil.”

This was not a joke. I genuinely believed that the devil was the one who’d made my digestive tract curdle into something sour and unpredictable.

How she kept a straight face I’ll never know.

What’s your funniest story about being sick?

 

4 Responses to “I Hate the Devil…”

  1. I’m beginning to suspect that this year’s “I’ll take a week off from work and get some writing done” plan is going to end up being the funniest story I have about being sick.

    I was doing so much better. I’d gotten Tamiflu, I’d shaken off most of the head-cold (still a little cough when I tried to lie down, but the headache and the massive, massive drainage? Gone). Then, yesterday, something that had been an occasional-but-inconvenient symptom that not everything in my body was working became a near-constant, hugely-inconvenient problem. So I’m just waking up today at, I dunno, 2:30 in the afternoon. I’m sipping water (cautiously) and eating toast with butter and honey (very, very cautiously).

    Writing? Ha.