The Curse

My father was a member of the National Guard ever since I can remember and then some. When I was little he used to go away every summer for two weeks to “summer camp”. I think they call it annual training now. Away, every year it seemed like when he went away something always happened. Something caught on fire, someone got sick and had to go to the hospital, the car broke down, etc etc. “ The curse” is what it has become known as.
My Dearly Beloved is an avid hunter. Or he tries to be. We’ve even nicknamed him Rambo during “the season” just to make him feel like a real hunter. Now, when he was single, he claims to have killed any and all deer that moved. His freezers were full. It was the only meat he ate. Since we’ve been married however, he has partaken to “trophy hunting only” status - or at least that what he claims. And by the look of our freezer every winter – he’s obviously telling the truth.
The very first year we were married and hunting season came around, I ended up with double pneumonia. He went hunting. Yep, you heard me right. He went hunting. (He pays for that little mistake every day….trust me.)
Ever since then, something has always happened. “The curse” - that lovely little tradition has now been passed down to my family. Unfortunately, I am usually the recipient of the particular demise of the year. Twice now I’ve been hospitalized with pneumonia during rifle season. Last year my doctor actually suggested I get the pneumonia vaccine. Yeah, right. And miss the wonderful guilt trip my DB goes through every year?!? And right before Christmas?!? I may be sickly in the fall but I’m not stupid.
However, if it’s not me – it’s someone or something. This years’ rifle season began and it was my youngest that had been chosen. I had my usual cold but it was better but my little one (ok – he’s not that little – but he’s still my baby) had gotten a stomach flu virus. Of course it ran the full gambit: fever, aches, pains, and my favorite – hurling groceries.
He managed to sleep most of the day, which was a good thing and a bad thing. Good because he needed the rest, and bad because I couldn’t get fluids into him while he’s sleeping so he became a little dehydrated. When the dry heaves came the poor thing starts spitting up blood. Hence the call to the doctor – and one to Dad to come home.
The curse had arrived.


P.S. The man-child survived and Rambo killed 2 deer.