At least
everyone cries in the same language---I decided I had this going for me as I
sat alone in a deserted gas station parking lot, unsure if the crazy French
machine accepted my credit card or wondering if I had just stolen 50 Swiss
Francs worth of their overpriced gasoline. With scenes of Brokedown Palace
playing through my head and no idea how to navigate home, I went ahead and gave
in to an overdue meltdown. My
backseat, eerily absent of baby babble as Amelia slept soundly at her first
co-ed sleepover so I could take my sick, lethargic husband to the emergency
room, looked like a better place than ever to lay down and the let the Swiss know,
in no particular language, how an American girl cries.
The only
thing worse than having OCD while your husband sleeps in a germ infested
hospital room is having OCD while your husband is quarantined in isolation in a
germ infested hospital room. Since progressively
worsening upon his recent return from Egypt, Matt was admitted at four in the morning
symptomatic of everything from E Coli to the Plague.
 |
| Poor Hubs |
Between the half nude
gypsy clan in the waiting room and the staff’s inability to understand broken French
and sign language for “my husband’s about to hurl,” it finally happened. Since
first arriving in this new, confusing, breathtaking world, I felt profoundly
and devastatingly homesick.
Taking a
seat next to gypsy chick and trying not to stare at her exposed gargantuan
nipple, I closed my eyes and thought of all of you, my friends back home, and
what you were doing on your side of the pond.
I recalled old inside jokes and wondered about all the new ones of which
I’d never be a part. I thought about all
the bachelorette parties and the stories told over margaritas and I could
almost hear all your laughter. I recalled our game nights and trips to the
casinos and tried for the life of me to figure out where the time had gone. I
thought of all the babies being born and the vows being made and the newest
Britney Spears' songs I would miss on my ridiculous French radio…and there,
right next to a vagabond’s nipple, I silently wept.
Life
eventually returned to its new definition of normal as Matt is back to his
usual self. After being hospitalized for two days, he was diagnosed with a
severe case of food poisoning and dehydration.
He never quite learned to walk like an Egyptian, though he sure learned to
puke like one.
As for me, I
pass the time reading and taking in all the sights with Amelia---the castles,
the wine vineyards, the unparalleled Lake Geneva and its Swiss Alps’ backdrop
(though secretly, I would trade it all for a day on Lake Decatur with a Salty
Dog Cooler of Bud Light and my favorite people in the universe).
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