When my husband came to bed around midnight, I woke up, and immediately said to myself, "this is not good." I prayed to the Vomituous Porcelain Gods, promising them that I would spend more time worshiping them, and clean the toilet bowl everyday for the rest of my life, if they would please, please, calm the inferno building in my stomach.

I sat up thinking of pretty things, like fields of flowers. I breathed deeply yet again. I let my mind wander. My husband sat with me, just talking softly as I fought the urge to relieve myself of what was left of my internal organs.

And then, he asked that fateful question: "Do you need me to get the bucket?"

That was all it took. At that point, the volcano erupted, and I collapsed at the base of the toilet bowl, just in the nick of time. My poor husband, reduced to patting my back, could do nothing but stand there and whisper words of encouragement as the flow of lava spewed forth, emptying not only the aforementioned organs, but sucking the toenails through my nose.

Yes, it was one of those.

I'm happy to report that after having my face gently washed with a cool cloth by my husband, and brushing my teeth, I was able to sleep the entire night with no further episodes. The only after affect I have is that every muscle I possess, from the neck on down, hurts. That and I existed on nothing but peanut butter toast and hot tea for the whole day.

From every hardship we learn lessons and what I learned was that I really do need to clean my toilets more often.