Of all the low points in my life this was the lowest...
I walked down the path and heard her sobbing. ‘Aww,’ I thought, ‘how sweet. She can’t cope with the thought of me leaving.’
The crying got louder – I was pleased; it showed how much she loves me and how upset she gets when I’m not there – and then I got in my car, put some Simon and Garfunkel on, and drove off.
Forty seconds into the journey my phone rang. It was my mother. ‘Hi mum,’ I answered breezily. ‘Mary was really upset when I left wa…’
‘STEVEN!’ interjected my mother with panic in her voice. ‘YOU TRAPPED HER HAND IN THE DOOR.’
‘Her fingers are so swollen and red,’ bellowed my mother. ‘I’m running them under the cold water tap.’ Then she added, just in case I didn’t feel bad enough already, ‘How could you do this to her?’
I began to imagine the court proceedings. ‘So Mr Canavan, your daughter’s right hand had to be amputated. Can you explain how the accident occurred?’ Thankfully all turned out okay and there were no broken bones or lasting damage. But understandably I’ve not told that story to many people, so I’d appreciate it if you could keep it between you and I.
But back to the start of this column – health-wise we’ve been lucky. Until now.
I drove to my sister’s the other day. As usual I’d spent the majority of the journey singing nursery rhymes with Mary.
Seconds after switching off the car engine, Wilf started crying. I glanced over my shoulder at his car seat and saw my son covered beneath a quite horrific deluge of vomit.
I did what any grown man would do and ran to get my sister. She came out, started retching, said, ‘sorry, sick’s the one thing I can’t deal with’ and disappeared.
I spent 40 minutes stripping Wilf, putting him in the bath, hand-washing his clothes and cleaning the back seat of the car.
Clean-up operation complete, 20 minutes later – at the very moment I picked him up and was touching my nose against his while saying the words, ‘there there Wilf, are you feeling better?’ – he spewed up again.
It went all over me and some, dear reader, went in my mouth. That’s right. My own son vomited into my mouth. There have been many low points in my life but this was, by some distance, the lowest.
‘Oh. My. God,’ I said, trying not to throw up.
Wilf vomited five more times before bed. By the end of it I was so adept in sick-cleaning I feel I could now apply for a job as a professional vomit remover.
Fortunately all seems fine