I was scared, but like so many times when fear creeps in and threatens to take hold – the thought of what may happen was much worse than what actually took place.
What took place was nothing more than a breathtaking, exhilarating car ride around an island covered with the most lush, picturesque scenery I ever had the pleasure of laying my eyes upon.
As we bumped and jerked and raced the sun around the twists and turns and eventually saw it drop below the horizon, and as the stars started to twinkle one by one in the night sky creating a blanket of sparkling lights covering us from above, I no longer felt afraid. I felt grateful. Oh so very, very grateful.
We left the road to Hana and headed for our dinner reservations at the very popular, highly acclaimed Mama’s Fish House. And it completely lived up to the hype. It was beautiful and delicious and peaceful and everything you would hope a meal at a restaurant sitting on the beach would be.
After stuffing ourselves silly with delectable fresh seafood, we headed back to the hotel with full bellies and full hearts. We went to bed that night with the knowledge that our vacation would soon be coming to an end, but that was ok. We were beyond happy.
Our next day was spent lounging around the pool and ocean and doing all the other great things you do when you are in Hawaii for the day.
Our evening ended with another exceptional meal at a restaurant down the beach from our hotel. We walked back from dinner once again with full bellies and full hearts. We were content. We were joyful. We were breathing in fresh ocean air. We were together. It was bliss.
We began to pack our bags in preparation for our flight home the next day. We laid our heads on the pillow. And went to sleep.
And then it happened.
The pain. The horrible, awful, feel like you must be dying pain. It felt like someone was stabbing my stomach with a small knife.
What was happening?
I was so sick. So. So. So. Sick.
With each of my children I suffered from horrible “morning” sickness. You know, the kind that lasts all day that makes you wonder why in the world anyone was ever cruel enough to name it morning sickness when it should have been called “all day every day” sickness. I was used to feeling sick. I was used to throwing up. I was not used to this.
This was like something you would see out of a movie. I’m not even sure the word projectile does it justice.
After a couple of hours of the pain, vomiting and other unmentionables – I finally woke Pat up and told him I must have Gatorade. Now. Fast. My legs were starting to lock up and I was starting to feel like I was on the verge of being really dehydrated really fast.
It may have been far from reality, but I was wondering if I would ever get up from that bed. I had never felt so bad.
He called the front desk. They asked if Ginger Ale would do, I politely responded with a faint, “No, it must be Gatorade.” (This is starting to sound like a really long Gatorade commercial, isn’t it?)
The kind man arrived in the early hours of the morning to bring my beverage of choice – I don’t have to tell you again what it was. For the next few hours, I continued to be sick and drink as much as I possibly could.
And as I lay there in all of my pain, I began to wonder if I would get home.
I was on an island and had not seen a hospital, or a clinic for that matter. While I am sure they existed, at that time I felt very. Very. Far away from home. I wondered where I would go to get fluids. I wondered how I would get on the plane. I wondered how I would endure the long flight back. I started to think about how Pat would have to leave me there and how I would have to come home later. I had never felt so bad.
My flight to Hawaii had been a sauna over the ocean and my flight home was about to be a whole different beast altogether.
*This is part three of a now FOUR part blog series….oh my…..I just can’t stop…….