329. Role Reversal

Margaret McInerny (Nora’s mom) shares a story from a recent trip she and Nora took to Ireland. A little food poisoning allowed the two of them to see their relationship from a different perspective.

Transcripts may not appear in their final version and are subject to change.

Hello. I’m Margaret McInerny and . . . it’s going to be OK.

It’s Day 8 of a 10 day road trip with Nora. I haven’t spent this much time alone with her since we drove to Cincinnati for her sophomore year.

Yet, here I am. splayed out on the cold tile of the bathroom floor in the lovely Ballymaloe guest house.

We had an afternoon of adventuring planned but something happened.

The night before we had dinner at a small restaurant in a quaint fishing village. It wasn’t a landslide that took me down.

It was an appetizer of “Torched Mackerel,” that did.

I thought “Torched” meant seared but apparently it means pickled. And that rogue seafood — maybe was not pickled enough — had no intention of remaining in my stomach.

Woke up a bit queasy but let’s have breakfast anyway because Ballymaloe food is organic, and irresistible. So good. Porridge with brown sugar and cream, eggs, toast, coffee, the whole thing.

A bit later — We’re ready to head out, but “hey, wait just a minute Nora, I’m not feeling good.” Feeling quite unwell. Something’s happening— I don’t know what but I know it’s NOT going to be good.

And. . . ugggh — it wasn’t. Violent retching. The worst, most ridiculous, horrible episode since a St. Patrick’s Day hangover some 35 years ago.

I’m not ashamed to say I cried.

Nora’s voice outside the bathroom door. “ . . . Mommmm? Are you ok?” Most definitely I am not. I can’t answer let alone get up by myself.

And in she comes.

“Mom! Jesus, what’s wrong? You threw up!

You should shower, you have vomit in your hair.”

“No. No, I can’t. Can not manage that right now. Must lie down immediately.

Things progressed but not in the direction I wished for. My body decided it wasn’t over yet. How about a nice dose of more reching, chills and teeth chattering my God, I can’t get warm.

In my delirium I time-traveled back to when 5-year old Nora was sick with stomach flu for days and days. Oh, dear God, She was so sick. Fever of 102. retching, then cool baths, pedialight for hydration and gently washing her while she stands in the tub. Washing the puke out of her hair. Tucking her into bed. Praying she gets better.

And now. With gentleness — Nora helps me up, puts a towel on the pillow — you know, don’t get vomit on the guest house pillow.

Puts water by my bedside. Insists I hydrate.

She arranges for a Dr. — and drives me at night on unfamiliar and very dark roads to a clinic where a very nice Dr. gives me an anti-nausea injection.

Nora takes a photo of me on the exam table looking like a corpse.

OK, I crossed my arms over my chest just to lighten up the situation.

She later sent to all the siblings.

I feel lousy and embarrassed that I’m wearing two sweaters, teal print pajama bottoms that pair nicely with Blundstone boots.

And then she makes me laugh.

“You can’t die here, Mom. If you do I’m going to leave you here in that graveyard with all the other McInernys. You’ll be in good company.”

Suddenly, I’m safely back in the guest house and tucked into bed.

Mmmm. You know that feeling — that luscious and slow-motion descent into sleep — and then I see my future. Nora at the helm. steering me into a safe place. Cared for. With Kindness. Grace. Humor. No shortage of things to laugh about. We do have our fun. Even if it means vomit in your hair.

And then I know for certain it’s going to be OK.