tell myself it’s taking me a while to come to grips with… everything… because I so seldom see her that it takes half of the weekend for me to reacquaint myself with all the things I’m supposed to be more accepting about. By the time I have the hang of ignoring the things that niggle at me so much, it’s Sunday night, and she’s pushing me out the door so she can pack for her next week on the road.
I’m seeing some improvement, though. Like the new runner who finds his endurance increasing with each session on the treadmill or lap around the block, I’m noticing the weekends are feeling shorter and shorter. I actually missed her this week while we’ve been apart, and I’m looking forward to seeing her this evening.
That anticipation is tempered by the fact I’ve barely heard from her all week. And I know, technology works both ways; I could have called or texted or even emailed her, and I have. Once or twice. But she never answered me.
I’m sure it’s nothing, though. Sometimes she just has busy weeks, in and out of airports and conference rooms, and she barely has energy to eat dinner before passing out in her hotel room. That’s probably been the case this week. When I see her tonight, I guarantee that’s what she’ll tell me.
First, I have to make it through the last day of one of the longest weeks of my life. There’s been an outbreak of stomach virus, which everyone keeps calling “the flu” ( major pet peeve of mine), so I’ve been up to my eyeballs in puking kids all week.
I’m sighing over the latest file for a ralphing patient when Lynette breezes by. “TGIF, Nate! Got any special Valentine’s plans with Frankie this weekend?”
Oh, yeah… I forgot to mention that, didn’t I? It’s Valentine’s Day. Well, it was Valentine’s Day yesterday, but even a “holiday” as contrived as this one gets its own weekend nowadays. (What’s up with that, anyway?)
I ignore Lynette’s banal chit-chat and ask with as much patience as possible, “Does Riley Poehler already have a barf bucket with her in the waiting room?”
Lynette blinks at me, obviously stung by my curt rejection.
I soften. “Sorry. I’m busy. And sick of vomit. And paranoid I’m going to come down with this crud, since it’s so contagious.”
Her smile widens as she accepts my apology. “I get it. To answer your question, yes. Everyone, including Riley, is receiving a barf bucket upon check in. It’s this week’s must-have fashion accessory.”
“Great.”
“Now, what do you have planned with Frankie this weekend? Indulge a lonely single girl, huh?”
Thinking about it makes my stomach lurch in a way I hope has nothing to do with germs. “Not much. I’m going to surprise her at the airport tonight.”
“Oooh! How romantic!”
“You think so?” Truth is, I’ve been going back and forth on the idea all day. A few times, I’ve been a button-push away from sending her a text to tell her I’ll see her in the morning.
But Lynette gushes, “Totally! We love when you guys make the effort to be spontaneous and fun.”
“Well, that’s me. Spontaneous and fun,” I mutter with a tight smile as I retrieve Riley’s file folder and push open the waiting room door.
The sounds of retching and splashing greet me. It doesn’t take me long to locate the source of the noises, and when I do, I’m dismayed to see a bucket sitting in the chair next to Riley, while she throws up on the floor in front of her. Her dad watches helplessly.
I rush over, skirt the puddle of muck, and position the pail under her face.
“I—I don’t know why she did that,” her dad, looking pale and shaky, tells me.
Maybe because she’s sick and five and needs a grownup—that would be you, Dad—to show her how it’s done?
I set Riley’s chart aside so I have a free hand to rub her back while she continues to expel the contents of her stomach. “It’s okay,” I reassure both of them as calmly as possible, focusing on the
I’m seeing some improvement, though. Like the new runner who finds his endurance increasing with each session on the treadmill or lap around the block, I’m noticing the weekends are feeling shorter and shorter. I actually missed her this week while we’ve been apart, and I’m looking forward to seeing her this evening.
That anticipation is tempered by the fact I’ve barely heard from her all week. And I know, technology works both ways; I could have called or texted or even emailed her, and I have. Once or twice. But she never answered me.
I’m sure it’s nothing, though. Sometimes she just has busy weeks, in and out of airports and conference rooms, and she barely has energy to eat dinner before passing out in her hotel room. That’s probably been the case this week. When I see her tonight, I guarantee that’s what she’ll tell me.
First, I have to make it through the last day of one of the longest weeks of my life. There’s been an outbreak of stomach virus, which everyone keeps calling “the flu” ( major pet peeve of mine), so I’ve been up to my eyeballs in puking kids all week.
I’m sighing over the latest file for a ralphing patient when Lynette breezes by. “TGIF, Nate! Got any special Valentine’s plans with Frankie this weekend?”
Oh, yeah… I forgot to mention that, didn’t I? It’s Valentine’s Day. Well, it was Valentine’s Day yesterday, but even a “holiday” as contrived as this one gets its own weekend nowadays. (What’s up with that, anyway?)
I ignore Lynette’s banal chit-chat and ask with as much patience as possible, “Does Riley Poehler already have a barf bucket with her in the waiting room?”
Lynette blinks at me, obviously stung by my curt rejection.
I soften. “Sorry. I’m busy. And sick of vomit. And paranoid I’m going to come down with this crud, since it’s so contagious.”
Her smile widens as she accepts my apology. “I get it. To answer your question, yes. Everyone, including Riley, is receiving a barf bucket upon check in. It’s this week’s must-have fashion accessory.”
“Great.”
“Now, what do you have planned with Frankie this weekend? Indulge a lonely single girl, huh?”
Thinking about it makes my stomach lurch in a way I hope has nothing to do with germs. “Not much. I’m going to surprise her at the airport tonight.”
“Oooh! How romantic!”
“You think so?” Truth is, I’ve been going back and forth on the idea all day. A few times, I’ve been a button-push away from sending her a text to tell her I’ll see her in the morning.
But Lynette gushes, “Totally! We love when you guys make the effort to be spontaneous and fun.”
“Well, that’s me. Spontaneous and fun,” I mutter with a tight smile as I retrieve Riley’s file folder and push open the waiting room door.
The sounds of retching and splashing greet me. It doesn’t take me long to locate the source of the noises, and when I do, I’m dismayed to see a bucket sitting in the chair next to Riley, while she throws up on the floor in front of her. Her dad watches helplessly.
I rush over, skirt the puddle of muck, and position the pail under her face.
“I—I don’t know why she did that,” her dad, looking pale and shaky, tells me.
Maybe because she’s sick and five and needs a grownup—that would be you, Dad—to show her how it’s done?
I set Riley’s chart aside so I have a free hand to rub her back while she continues to expel the contents of her stomach. “It’s okay,” I reassure both of them as calmly as possible, focusing on the
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