The Coast Of Cassis And Puking In France

Matt and I can only take the "big city" for so long, so after a day in Marseille we packed the kids up in the Volvo and headed east along the coast to the town of Cassis.

That's better.

Cassis is a small commune located in a little bay east of Marseille on the Mediterranean Sea. The water was blue, turquoise, aqua, and crystal clear to the bottom. Tall cliffs called calanques sheltered the small town. 

I left Matt and the kids exploring the tide pools on this rock and I went for a stroll by myself.

Cassis.

The view during my walk.

An interesting fact about Cassis is that this is where the stone for the base of the Statue of Liberty was quarried. Thank you, France.

I had shed my jacket during the walk because the temperature had climbed all the way up to over 60°F. When I rounded the corner, I saw that my boys had shed some things too.

Ahem.

After getting my boys dressed again, we ventured into Cassis and got Provençal sandwiches which consisted of warm chicken, olive oil, cheese, and tomatoes on a fresh baguette. So good!

Our view while eating our sandwiches. 

And of course, what is a visit to anywhere in France without going to the bakery to load up on eclairs and tortes.

Yes, please. At this bakery it was a point-and-hold-up-your-fingers-for-what-you-want situation. 

I found this French rooster pitcher here in Cassis. It was made nearby in Provence. Love the bright colors.

We went back to the rental house and enjoyed our French treats and fell asleep to dreams of blue Mediterranean waters, ancient towers, and delicious food. The next day we were planning on going to Cannes, Nice, and Monaco. And then on the third day Avignon.

But...

Little did we know that we would see those delicious Provençal sandwiches and delicious baked goods again later that night. But in a slightly different form.

I awoke at 4:00 am to the sound of my child throwing up in the bathroom of the rental house. After cleaning this child up and cleaning up the floor I finally got back in bed at 5:30 am. At 6:00 am I heard a different child throwing up in bed while their bedroom partner asked "Do you want me to go get Mom?"

Oh... for heaven's sake.

I cleaned this child up. Puker #1 then came into our bedroom to say that they still didn't feel good. And then they puked on our floor.

Puker #2 was throwing up every 30 minutes, but at least they made it into the toilet.

This was so not turning out to be the day I had in mind.

Now remember, we are in a rental house, in France, and the owners speak hardly any English. We had exhausted our supply of sheets and towels that they have given us to use. Matt went downstairs and tried to explain to them that our kids were sick and could they wash these pukey sheets and towels so that A- the entire house didn't reek of vomit, and B- so that we could continue to contain the situation. They didn't understand what Matt was saying until he pointed upstairs and pantomimed throwing up and made fake retching sounds. I knew they got it when I heard "Mon Dieu!" and "Sacra bleu!" 

Our plans had definitely changed for the day. Our sick to healthy ratio stood at 50-50. The first two pukers were finally resting comfortably. I didn't want to waste the day. Matt suggested that I take the two non-pukers on trip around Aix en Provence to see some sights, have some lunch and then return to see how the pukers were. If they were better, we would go somewhere close, maybe the beach, where they could rest and just sit in the sun. 

Matt took a nap with the two healthy children because we all had been up rather early. Right as I was getting ready to wake the healthy children for lunch, the next child, who was asleep right next to Matt, sat straight up and puked all over our bed and Matt's arm. 

Oh geez. There go my Aix en Provence plans.

I realized that I wasn't going anywhere. Puker #3 was now lying on the bathroom floor silently weeping that they were going to die. I checked Puker #1 and Puker #2. They had fevers and were still throwing up. They complained they were thirsty and French tap water wasn't going to cut it. I needed to get out and get some fluids. 

This was a Sunday and grocery stores are not open in France (or hardly anywhere in Europe) on Sundays. Gas stations close too. I got in the Volvo and started driving all over Aix en Provence looking for an open gas station where I could get Coke, or Sprite, or juice, or anything. It took 45 minutes and five tries before I found something. I found a BP petrol station. I stocked up on clear fluids like apple juice and Sprite and mineral water. They even had fresh bananas!! I went to the check out and placed my items down. After checking out the items, the clerk looked at me and said something like this "Je na pada la la la je ne blah blah."

Should I even point out that I had no idea what he said?

Most of the time in Europe I make an attempt, albeit a small one, to understand what people say to me in their language. Not today. I was tired. I had cleaned up puke from three kids. And I was in France. I looked right at him and said "Je ne parle pas français." I don't speak French. At all.

He looked at me, smiled, and in perfect English said, "Can I get you anything else today ma'am?" 

I almost wept in relief.

He then told me my total in English. €11,50. He even said "Have a nice day!" 

The rest of the day progressed pretty much how you imagine. Three pukers, soiled towels, backs rubbed. Sips of apple juice going down and coming back up. The last child still wasn't feeling sick and when I returned Matt took pity on this child and took them to the French McDonald's out in town. Probably not the best idea.

We saw that cheeseburger again at 8:00 pm when the last child standing became Puker #4. This one then threw up all through the night. In the bed, in the hall. And do I even need to mention that I did the majority of the throw up cleaning by myself? My husband has a severe puke aversion. You can read about the first time I found that out right here. See - Wedding Day Vomit.

We finally left Aix en Provence the next morning. The owners of the house weren't that sad to see us go. Cancelled our plans to see Avignon and zipped home on the autoroute (French freeway) as fast as we could.

So that is why you will see no pictures of Cannes, or Nice, or Avignon here. At least not now.

As we drove home, all four pukers were quiet in the car. Most of them slept all the way home. Me? I just stared out the window and thought of this.

My happy place in Cassis.

When we got home, we told our story to our friends. They laughed and said, "Well, it sounds like you've had The Trip."

What's The Trip? It's the trip where something goes horribly wrong. We then heard stories of broken bones, car accidents, severe food poisoning, lost passports, and flights delayed for eight days. Oh what fun to be had.

I don't think it was food poisoning. The kids didn't eat anything that we didn't. But Matt and I were so scared that we were going to get sick while we were there that we went to bed Sunday night without having dinner because we figured it would just show back up again. When we got back, we heard that there had been illness going around the schools. Sounds like a virus. Luckily, Matt and I never fell to the Great French Puke Fest of 2013 as it shall now and forever be known.

Spinal Tap Is More Than Just A Funny Movie

Last week was a rough one around here. My daughter Ashlenne was running a temperature of around 104.5 and had a heart rate of 155. If those just seem like random numbers to you, trust me, they are high. The scariest part though, was not how high they were, but that after hours in the emergency room the doctors couldn't get them to drop. Her blood pressure was spiking above 190. They ordered every test they could think of and quickly because she was in danger of going into cardiac arrest or having a stroke. I sat there, in that cold hospital room (why are hospitals so cold?), watching my daughters heart rate on the monitor. It seemed to be going impossibly fast. I took my own pulse and her heart was beating four times the rate my own was. As doctors came in and out of her room, a cold fear began settling in my stomach. Real fear. Not the kind where someone jumps out at you or you forget to pay the water bill so you have to rush down before they turn it off. But the kind of fear where you realize your whole life may be changing right before your eyes. Where you realize this child who you have nurtured and protected for eleven and a half years may be in the most dangerous situation of her life right in front of you and you can't do a thing to stop it.

I didn't cry though. Not because I'm an emotional rock. But because part of my brain kept saying, 'This isn't really happening.' Everything happened so fast that I barely had a chance to keep up physically, let alone emotionally.

One of the most difficult tests they did on her was the spinal tap. To do the spinal tap they sedated her enough so that she couldn't move but was fully conscious so she could listen to their instructions. Halfway through the insertion of a needle through the lumbar vertebrae of her back she began sobbing uncontrollably, begging for her Dad. Watching that just about broke me inside.

After hours of tests they finally diagnosed her with bacterial pneumonia. Scary words. But not as scary as bacterial meningitis.

All said and done, at the end of the experience we had been through -

Eight pounds lost (Ashlenne's).
Seven days in bed.
Six doctors visits.
Five missed days of school.
Four shots of rocefin.
Three IV's of antibiotics.
Three blood cultures.
Three chest x-rays.
Two emergency room visits.
Two strep cultures.
Two antibiotic prescriptions.
Two cardiac monitors.
And one spinal tap.

Oh, and countless tablets of ibuprofen and acetaminophen.

She is now back at school and the color has returned to her cheeks. She ran across the lawn last night without coughing. Still out of breath, but she could do it. Here's to doctors. Here's to nurses. Let's hear it for hospitals. Let's hear it for modern medicine. And let's hear it for still having my daughter around to hug and kiss because if this had happened in different time, I would probably be telling a different story. And you wouldn't be reading it on a blog either.

Down For The Count

I am starting the long road to recovery after a nasty bout of food poisoning. Never in my life have I wished myself dead except when I am worshipping the great porcelain god in my bathroom. But I actually don't want to write about being sick. You've all been sick before. You know how it feels. When you feel like you've been picked up and wrung out. When you've thrown up and everything else (I don't want to mention what "everything else" is, but you know what I mean) for so long you are sure that you are as empty as Lindsay Lohan's bank account. I mean sick. What I want to write about is what it's like when there is only one parent and that parent is down.

As you know, my husband Matt is deployed in the Middle East.  So when I get sick, or break a bone, or have major surgery (all these things have happened) while he's gone things get interesting around here. This latest bout with illness wasn't that bad. I was really only down for about 18 hours. Well, not really down. I was actually up. But I was busy. Let's just say there was a lot of knocking on my door and asking if I was okay and if I was going to come out. Most of the time I responded with a shaky "I'm okay honey. I'll be out in a minute." That was usually followed with the sound of the dry heaves. I know. I said I wasn't going to talk about being sick. It just keeps sneaking in.

One of the worst things about Matt being gone is I have no back up. There is no one to run to the store for ginger ale. There is no one to get up and get the kids ready for school. Or to drive them to school. Or to sign their notes. Or make them dinner. Yes, I do have great friends and neighbors that when it gets really bad I can call. But my three closest neighbors were down too. The first had a fever and hacking cough. The second just broke her wrist. And the third has five small children (having five small children makes you down all the time). I was on my own.

My children actually were pretty good. Ashlenne got herself up and then woke up her brothers. She made breakfast for everybody. She did the dishes. Alexander and Aidan helped out too. But there was no way I was going to ask any of them to run to the store. Alexander volunteered reminding me of the time his dad let him drive in a church parking lot. I told him that my car had enough dents on it from just me driving it. It didn't need anymore. I pulled on my weird knit hat and big coat (same thing I wore to the post office to send Matt his pillow) and dragged myself to Target.

Why Target? Target is the closest store to my house that sells anything that resemble groceries. As I walked through the doors I could feel eyes on me. I knew I was white as a ghost with purple circles under my eyes. I was moving like I was made of glass. Don't touch me! I might break or throw up on you. I selected a few items to purchase and made my way to the cashier. I bought Sprite, ginger ale, Imodium, anti-nausea medication, applesauce, and ibuprofen. She knew exactly what was going on.

But that was yesterday. Today is a new day. I feel pretty good. I may even eat today.

Day to day life on its own is pretty hard with Matt gone. He is missed a lot. Christmas and birthdays especially. But he is more than missed on other days. He is needed. I needed him yesterday. He offered his support over the phone and I knew he felt bad. But what do you do? You power through, alone. You get better, alone. You hope that whatever it is that you have doesn't get passed on to the kids because there is nothing worse than being sick and then having to take care of them, alone. And even though he was needed yesterday, you know that you can manage with him gone. That somehow things will work out. They always do.

A Virus Among Us

It's been awhile since I posted. I hope you didn't think I was breaking up with you right when we are getting to know each other. I didn't forget you. I got sick. A cold. A virus to be exact. The virus made itself known on a Tuesday with a sore throat and runny nose. I countered with pretending I wasn't sick. On Thursday it came at me with a hacking cough and phlegm (even the word phlegm looks gross). I had nothing I could fight back with so I agreed with the virus that I was indeed sick.

Those two days of pretending did me no good. In fact, I think it made me sicker than I would have been if I had taken it easy. On Friday I did what any good employee does when they don't feel like working. I called in sick. Now I am a stay-at-home mom so this means getting up from bed, and going right back down on the couch. From the couch I could point to cereal boxes when the kids asked what was for breakfast. From the couch I could tell them to find their own shoes. But of course, like any job, just because I called in sick it doesn't mean the work stops. I called in a temp. My mom. She showed up with chicken soup, rolls, and a funny movie about babies. She fed the kids and tried to control the mess and then we watched the movie and did a lot of oohing and ah-hing.

I recovered, of course, slowly. And eventually felt better and tried to reenter my life. But. Yes, there is a but. Another virus was making itself known. Forty-nine to be exact.

I went up to my computer and it wouldn't let me access the internet. I know!! No internet! How can life as we know it go on! I coudn't check my account balances. I couldn't check my email. And worse, I couldn't blog!!! Ahhhhhhh! The agony!

I called up my new best friend, Kris, and told him to come and help me. Kris is a magical wizard who understand words like pdf file and safe mode and malware. He did a scan to check for a virus and of course I had not one, but like I said, 49. Thanks kids.

I totally blamed them for all their silly websites they go to. There is no way that I could have had anything to do with there being anything wrong with the computer.

Now it works. The computer and me are now virus free. Now that we are up and running again I shall be blogging a little more often than every two weeks. I hope you didn't miss me. But I missed you. See you again soon!