There’s been a few times in my relationship with Big Fisch that I’ve accidentally poisoned him.
Although I’ve joked once or twice about purposeful poisoning, these instances were in fact accidental.
Turns out that when you’re allergic to many things under the sun, a well intended home cooked meal can become a death trap.
We were at a wedding this past weekend, enjoying the night with friends and celebrating the happy couple. Dinner had been served, the cake had been cut, and the dance floor was hopping. All seemed well.
A song came on that wasn’t a favorite of mine, so I took it as an opportunity to fetch myself some wedding cake. (My favorite moment of all matrimony celebrations).
Big Fisch meandered by and I offered him a bite as I noticed him glance longingly at the cake. Sure, he’s allergic to gluten and dairy, but a small bite without icing won’t hurt, I reasoned. He took me up on my offer and I popped a small piece in his mouth, excited by this rare moment of shared enthusiasm over dessert.
Knowing his limits, he stopped at one bite and wandered back off to converse with a group of friends.
Not long after, we were headed back to the dance floor and Big Fisch casually mentioned “hmm, that’s strange. My mouth is starting to feel tingly. ”
“Really?” I looked at him with a curious eye. “Did you eat something with nuts in it?”
“I’m not sure; maybe. It’s fine though. Ha!” he replied in his ever-optimistic manner.
I took him at his word and kept on dancing as Taylor Swift belted “Shake it off! Ssh shake it off!” over the speakers.
A little while later I noticed Big Fisch moving his tongue around in his mouth, shifting his jaw from side to side.
“Is your throat closing up?” I asked gently.
Big Fisch fidgeted with the collar of his shirt pressing against his neck and said “Yeah kinda. That’s so strange though. I wonder what caused it?”
I was about to suggest that now was not the time for hypothesizing and that we should ask around for some Benadryl, since thanks to my recent purse change out, I didn’t have any on me.
“Let’s see if anyone has some Ben -”
All of a sudden the beat I knew all too well started playing. I had been waiting all night for The Wobble to come on and I jumped in excitement gasping “THE WOBBLE!” (For some reason I have that reaction every time. Every single time.)
I grabbed Big Fisch’s hand and ran towards the dance floor, completely forgetting for a moment that his throat was tightening more by the second. He willingly followed behind me and tried to get his feet to move in unison with the crowd.
Bless his heart.
I jumped to the front, jumped to the back, shook it to the left, shook it to the ri..-
“Crap! Babe, I’m sorry. Do you need us to leave? Is it getting worse?”
Small beads of sweat were starting to trickle down his forehead. “Ehh, it’s alright. How about after the Wobble? Is it alright if we leave then?”
“Alright sounds good!” I continued on moving to the music, not missing a beat.
Wait, what? My brain finally caught up with my words. Come on now Heather! You’re going to make him wait and struggle to breath while you WOBBLE?!
While I really didn’t want to leave the party and all our friends early, I also didn’t want to have to explain to people that I was a young widow because my husband died while selflessly waiting for me to complete five minutes of wobbling.
I grabbed his hand and said “I can wobble anytime; let’s go!”
We said our quick goodbyes and rushed to the car in search of a drug store.
We were 15 minutes away from any store open past 10pm, selling medicine. I don’t think I’d ever seen Big Fisch drive my baby-mama car so fast before.
His esophagus was tightening and I could tell he was alternating between pain and panic, panic and pain.
Finally finding a grocery story, he tore into a box of Benadryl and chewed a few pills as fast as he could.
“Now remember; tap my arm three times if you can’t breath. Then I’ll ask Siri to find us a hospital.”
“Yep, got it” he said shortly.
I knew he had close to zero confidence placing his life in my hands.
As he should.
Back at home, he quickly passed out in front of the TV. His allergic reaction had stopped progressing and he could breath with ease. He flopped from side to side, occasionally talking about engines whenever I’d laugh loudly at my show, stirring his sleep.
He’d had a drink or two at the wedding and I knew the strong medicine and alcohol was making him delirious. Not the best for his body, but wildly entertaining to observe.
Later that night in bed, he talked in and out of consciousness as he drifted off.
“Good night babe, I love you” I whispered.
“Okay, YES! Good night love you too” he shouted.
Hmm. That was weird.
He turned on his side, burped out some gas burning in his worn out esophagus, and loudly said “Thanks a lot, sounds good!”
I suppressed a chuckle and drifted to sleep.
A few hours later I was awoken to Big Fisch talking once again. My mind struggled to focus in on his words which sounded nothing like English.
Then he rolled towards me and with great enthusiasm he looked at me and pointed dramatically:
“You Royal Tancoon! (said with the annunciation of Schmidt from New Girl.) I know how it works… I mean, not really. But you’ve stayed with us before and I’ve seen how it’s done, you Tookus!”
With that, he flopped over and fell back asleep.
I stared at the ceiling thinking…what in the world is a Royal Tancoon? Please Lord, tell me this won’t be the next nickname he gives me.
He awoke the next morning feeling much better and having no memory of his delirious talk. But he sure did get a kick out of calling me Royal Tancoon.
We still don’t know what caused his allergic reaction. Could have been the cake…or something in his dinner…or even the golf course the wedding was at.
After all, that is the third time he’s had an allergic reaction while standing on a… golf course.
That’s right folks. If our life ever became a game of Clue, with Big Fisch as the victim, the verdict may very well read something like “Tiny Fisch, did it with a pecan cake, on the golf course.”
Motive? Interruption of Wobble dance.