You Want Me to Stick That Where???

How was my weekend, you ask? Oh, you didn't? Well I'll tell you anyway.
It. Was. Traumatic. With a capital T.
Having been stricken with a case of the flu that resembled an eerie War of the Worlds scenario, I have been attempting to get better. Rest, rest, hydrate, hydrate. And then the unthinkable happened.
It all started when I called my doctor Friday. "AGHURGHR, I'M DYING," I moaned, or something similar. I took it personally that I had been in a scant week before and nothing, Nothing, had improved. Fever? check. Infant-like weakness? check. Dizziness? double check. So I called. My trusty doctor phoned in a new antibiotic prescription, knowing my body's remarkable ability to refuse any but the strongest, most Incredible Hulk medication he has.
But then the nausea came. The dizzy, permeating nausea. Am I out to sea in a hurricane or in my living room watching Seinfeld? No one knows.
So I did what I've only done once before, when I had an allergic reaction to an allergy shot. I paged my doctor. At eleven p.m. Saturday night. This, of course, was after fire hydrant-esque puking into a bucket. It was Sprite and crackers, not a good sign. I was afraid I was having Some Kind of Reaction. Mostly I was exhausted of being sick for two and a half weeks.
He decided to phone in an anti-nausea med to a 24 hour pharmacy. John - who was a true hero in this whole debacle - had nonchalantly emptied my vomit bucket, rinsed out the shower after a little bucket bag leak situation, and drove twenty minutes away for the anti-nausea cure. He returned to find me on the phone with Mom, because I didn't want to feel alone and pukey, and Moms are old hands at pukey kids, even when they are twenty-..twenty-something. There's something about a Mom's voice, just like there's something about the way a Mom fluffs a pillow that just isn't the same.
He opened the new anti-nausea cure and began reading.
"Honey, are you familiar with suppositories?"
"WHAT??!!??"
"The prescription is suppositories."
"OH MY GOSH, is THIS what doctors do to patients who page at 11 on a weekend? Well he got his point across." (Upon further reflection, of course an anti-nausea can't go down the stomach, if you're throwing up a lot, you'll lose it in the maelstrom.)
It should be noted that John had a grin.
I marched to the bathroom. "This looks like a crayon. I'm shoving a crayon up my butt?"
"Guess so." (still grinning)
"AGHGHGHGHGH"
"Is that a real scream, or are you just screaming because?"
I had been screaming to let the world know that I may be shoving a medicated crayon up my butt, but I didn't like it.
"What's the - it keeps coming out!"
"Then shove it in farther. Geesh."
"AGHGHGHGHGH MY OWN FINGER IS UP MY OWN BUTT AGHGHGHGHGH"
"Now please, wash your hands. Thoroughly."
As if I was going to do anything else at that moment.
"Oh my GOSH IT BURNS. IT BURNS!!!"
"Yeah, so?"
"IT BURNS.."
But after about a half hour, the burning had subsided and, much more importantly, the nausea was slowly fading, and the drowsy effect of the medicine was lulling me into forgetting the trauma that had just unfolded. So much so that I slept a solid twelve hours and awoke to find the least nausea I'd had in days. My stomach almost felt normal.
It was a traumatic weekend.