Casey couldn't keep anything down yesterday. My job was to bring Gatorade home after work, and even Casey seemed to know it. "Did you bring Gatorade?" were the first words out of his mouth when I arrived. I put some in a cup for him and left him to drink it ("No ice," he says. "It just came home from the store -- without ice, it's going to be warm. Do you want it with ice, or do you want it warm?" "Warm," he answers. That's when I knew he was really sick.).
Then I returned to the kitchen to check in with Erika a bit. We talked a while, and I got myself some dinner, and finally I asked: so, how long does it usually take him to throw it up once you give him something to drink? Not long, Erika said: maybe 5 or 10 minutes. Whoa, I said, I should probably get down there and check on him again.
I find Casey staring listlessly at the TV. It's pretty dark in the room, so I can't see much else.
"Hey, Casey. How are you doing with the Gatorade? Did you throw it up?"
"Yeah."
"Oh. ... In the bowl?"
"No."
Dang it. "OK ... where did you throw up?"
He shrugs and points at his lap. C'mon, man, the bowl is like a foot away.
(He was looking and acting much better this morning.)
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