Vacation Horror Story
Early, even for farmers, we loaded up my mother in law’s car with luggage and a toddler car seat and headed for the airport. My 5-year-old daughter followed in her father’s footsteps with a case of motion sickness every time she rode in a car. Always prepared in our own car with plastic bags, a washcloth to dab her face, and extra clothing we suddenly found ourselves 30 minutes from the airport with a child about to upchuck her cookies. We were totally unprepared. My mother in law, Ruth, stopped the car and the greening child was quickly dispatched to the side of the road. Thank goodness for Kleenex. None of us thought much of the retching; it was a normal occurrence.
The flight went as well as could be expected with an exuberant 5 year old and a worried 2 year old. Neither cried or cranked about ears and not being allowed to run up and down aisles. Tom and I looked at each other and sighed grateful for small miracles. It was then the pilot announced air turbulence and a possible delay in our arrival. I could feel the conveyance lurching along, but I remained calm. It is at this juncture that I must tell all the truth of the matter. I hate flying. Flying is not what humans should be doing. Flying is for birds. I am a white-knuckled, hold your breath at each tiny bump, watch the wings for gremlins and damage, and oh my god what is that coming down from the wing now, and does this plane have phalanges, flyer. In the face of what my mind was convincing me was the imminent demise of the whole lot of us, I smiled and told my daughter that the picture she colored was amazing and continued reading “Where the Wild Things Are” to my son in a falsely composed voice.
We landed safe and late in Denver. We had to make the connecting flight to Salt Lake City. Tom grabbed up a carryon and Manda desperately clinging to her little bag, I grabbed up a now wailing Andrew and diaper bag thus beginning the cross-airport dash. I’d like to say we leaped over tall piles of luggage, sprinted with the ease of Ben Johnson, but the reality was something quite different. Slogged down with kids and carryons, we both lumbered with straps falling off shoulders, tripping over our own feet, but moving as fast as we could toward the gate with one ear listening to hear the words, “now boarding, flightâÂ?¦” In between the hustling and listening, Andrew wept and wailed for his car seat that he was quite sure he would never see again. Why he chose this time to care about a car seat that he hated and battled nearly everyday will always remain a mystery. We did make it to the gate on time, boarded, and flew off to Salt Lake City.
Oh the gleaming white of the Mormon tabernacle sparkled before us with hope and promise. That would be great if it had been so. Instead, the two of us weighted down with luggage, diaper bag, car seat and kids stood at an Avis counter with confirmation in hand, waiting for the feel of cold metal in a hand that would start the engine. What? A problem? NO! But�but� This was the deal. We had called and rented a car that would take us from Salt Lake City, Utah to Dillion, Montana, to Anaheim, California.
“You can’t do that,” said the sales person standing behind the counter.
“What do you mean, we can’t do that? We all ready made the reservations.”
“You can’t rent a car in the mountains and drive it to Anaheim.”
“Why not?”
“We just don’t do that. You have to understand, we have specific details for the cars driven in the Rockies, that are not required in California.”
“If that’s the case then why was I told a car would be ready?” questioned my now exasperated husband.
“A mistakeâÂ?¦” trailed off the person who I was quickly learning to dislike with thoughts of throttling advancing in my mind.
“I wanna speak to your supervisor.” Yes! I thought now we’re going to see some action.
A person walked to the counter who looked just like the guy we were presently dealing with. He gave a broad smile and asked what he could do. “GIVE US A CAR!” Screamed in my head as frustration mounted. I’d had enough and with two impatient, tired children tugging at me I walked away to look out the window holding a small hand in each of mine.
After 45 minutes of battling wills and phone calls from here to there, we were not only given a car, but also upgraded from compact to midsize. On the road to Montana finally with exhausted slumbering children seemed like nirvana. We had the worst of the trip behind us, from here on out it would be like skiing down a mountain slope on a sunshine wintry day. I was such an optimist.
The plan was to stay with my sister and her family one-week. We spent time ooooing and ahhhing over our little ones. We drank wine and talked until navy blue night turned to early morning gray. We took a look at Butte and Missoula. What started out rocky had turned to smooth even in the mountains. One day we decided to make the drive to Bob’s favorite place in Montana, Phillipsburg, a small town nestled in a valley with mountains all around. This is where they would live once Bob finished his degree. Driving though the mountains is like flying to me, there is no place but down. Bob deftly maneuvered switchbacks and with each turn of the wheel my breath caught in my throat. I’d become a white-knuckled, backseat passenger traversing the mountains. The day’s excursion moved into late afternoon. Andrew had had enough of sightseeing from a car seat and began a soft whimper that escalated to an all-out battle cry of anguish and despair. Damning the law regarding children in car seats at all times I lifted him from his tight restraint. Just at the point when he was directly behind Bob at eye level, he hurled lunch and any snacks into the hood of Bob’s jacket with the force of a full body heave. Besides landing adroitly in the hood of the jacket, the wet, putrid mess hit the back of his neck and began a slow, thick trickle downward. Stopping the car as soon as possible, Bob pulled off the jacket, shook out what he could and stuck it in the trunk. The trunk was no deterrent to the sour odor of vomit. A carload of people of all ages held their noses shut with fingers pinching tightly. We hadn’t gotten too much further when the second barf wave hit. The poor little red-faced tyke lay in my arms softly crying until we arrived back to the home of my sister.
A few days later we were packing up to leave the following morning. Calling it a day, we tucked in children and ourselves to chase dreams of Disneyland. About 2am I woke with low painful cramps in my stomach. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling and wishing so hard with my eyes tightly pressed shut and my teeth gritted. “NooooâÂ?¦noooâÂ?¦” No amount of wishful thinking could stop the onslaught of a full-blown case of diarrhea. I ran to the bathroom to purge myself of the foul contents, returned to bed only to repeat the process over and over. Everyone rose early anticipating a quick breakfast, tearful goodbyes and on the road again scenario. What came to pass was the contents of my bowels as we waited for another hour to go by in hopes that Montezuma’s revenge would wear itself out. Finally, at 9am Tom insisted we head out.
Off we went in the rented car, with two children, one driver and one nervous woman who spent most of the drive holding sphincter muscles tight with fortitude and a grimace. We’d not gone far before it began to snow. I’m not talking about sweet little flakes dancing on a winter wind, I’m talking gargantuan flakes swirling menacingly in front of the windshield and mounding up faster than a stacked ham and cheese sandwich on rye.
We never bothered to listen to the weathercast the night before, but we were now. The weatherman was reporting high winds, hazardous conditions in the mountains with accumulations of what might as well have been mile high snow. I suggested a return to Dillion, Tom insisted that as long as we followed traffic (all of one car ahead of us) we’d be fine. I shot him a look of disbelief before hunching over in another cramp.
I could hold it no longer. The next rest area came sooner than I had even prayed for. With a long sigh of relief, I set out to relieve myself. The wind whipped at my face as I trekked through snow piled ass-high. I could barely get through it, but I saw my prize waiting and there was no way I was going to lose this race. I sat on the toilet alleviated of all my troubles for a few brief moments. The hike back to the car seemed less arduous. We stopped early that day. I went to bed with a fever and chills. Tom and the children ate fast food while I slept. The next morning I woke feeling much better and we were off, once again looking forward to sunny Californian and the promise of a better day.
We drove through Nevada and only had the very corner of Arizona to worry about whenâÂ?¦ it hit. This time it was Manda who felt the wrath of Montezuma. How could he be so cruel? I held her on my lap as we crossed the state line into California. For some reason, her case of what had to be the flu only lasted the afternoon. By the time we pulled into Tom’s sister’s home, she was smiling, laughing, darling Manda.
Jane, my husband’s sister, always the master planner wrote down an itinerary for us. Whale watching on Monday, off to Disneyland on Tuesday, the Queen Mary on Wednesday, San Diego and the zoo and the wild animal park, Thursday and Friday. Finally, home to dinner with family and friends on Friday night and one last hurrah at Disneyland with everyone on Saturday. All the forethought and energy that went into the plans was nothing compared to a raging flu insistently chasing its last victim. No one in the family would escape the wrath of intestinal flu.
So much for whale watching on Monday. In the middle of our first night in Anaheim, Tom was the last member of the family to find himself spending copious amounts of time in the bathroom. In my estimation, he was lucky, though. He only had to scurry from bed to bathroom a mere few feet to navigate while clenching butt cheeks together. The whale watching reservations were cancelled and new ones were made. The children and I spent the day relaxing, playing games, and watching TV. We were gathering strength before attacking the list of places to go, things to see, experiences to be had, and foods to taste.
Looking back, Montezuma’s curse did indeed wreak havoc on my family, but even he could not ruin our vacation. We did go whale watching and saw a whale breach; we did go to the happiest place on earth, laughing, smiling, creating memories that last forever. Jane watched the children while Tom and I spent a day on Long Beach visiting the Queen Mary and shopping. We spent two days and a night in San Diego watching koalas and kangaroos and walking the trails at the Wild Animal Park. We did see California sunsets and reacquaint ourselves with loved ones that we seldom saw and didn’t know as well as we should. When we arrived back at Toledo airport, my mom and dad were waiting for us with open arms and hugs for the happy wanderers glad to be home and ready to tell the tale of vacationing with Montezuma.
