“Who so diggeth a pit shall fall therein.” – Proverb
“Like gravity, karma is so basic we often don’t even notice it.” – Sakyong Mipham
“Karma, karma, karma, karma, karma, chameleon.” – Boy George
In all honesty, I can’t remember the year or exactly how old I was when this incident took place, but let’s just say that it was one summer in the early 90s whilst I was still in my early teens, was yet to buy my first Pink Floyd album and it was also during a period in which my acne practically had its own postcode.
My parents and I were on holiday in Argyll, western Scotland. We used to spend a number of holidays there as we all loved the area, it was beautiful, peaceful and relaxing – apart from when the wind really picked up from the sea and started removing the tiles from the roof of the cottage we stayed at as if they were confetti.
Unfortunately, this story involves a moment that rather punctured that peaceful, relaxing vibe. It is at this moment that I should warn you not to read any further if you are just about to eat, still eating, slightly squeamish or just getting a bit bored (I promise that I won’t be offended).
Anyhow, to very briefly set the scene, when we stayed there, I used to sleep in one of those bunk beds with a wooden-slatted base at the bottom. Sometimes, I slept on the top bunk, sometimes I slept at the bottom, I was a crazy, unpredictable child you see. Both bunks were very comfortable and it was a shame that, after this one particular occurrence, they were never quite the same again.
Given that this was over 20 years ago, it’s probably not surprising that I can’t remember the cause of what actually happened. Perhaps I had a migraine (I am occasionally still susceptible to them), maybe I had some other virus or maybe it was just because I had eaten way too many fizzy cola bottles. The bottom line is, one night, I was sick. Not just mildly sick, I mean I was SICK. The sort of sick that made you wonder if you hadn’t accidentally regurgitated a vital organ or whether your belly button had been permanently wrenched a few inches higher.
Whilst the exact details are thankfully sketchy, I definitely know that it was a long time before I was that sick again. In fact, not until an incident involving a bottle of ‘Apple Sourz’ in a unnamed Brighton nightclub many, many years later. But I’m not going to get into that.
So, despite the fact that I felt absolutely rotten, could barely move afterwards and had the sort of complexion normally reserved for one of the Cullen family in the Twilight movies (I was dragged to see all of them by my wife, ok?) the sympathy in this lovely little story should be completely reserved for my parents who, of course, ended up having to clean the ‘debris’ from the bed, floor and, most trickily of all, from between the corners and joins of a large number of those wooden bed slats. Simply put, it cannot have been pleasant.
Regardless of the horror they experienced and the amount of Dettol they must have used, I simply assumed that, over time, my parents would have largely forgotten about the incident. After all, if my memory is a bit hazy when remembering the details, surely they would have just chalked it up to just another aspect of parenting they had to put up with and moved on, never to mention it again?
Fast-forward at least 20/25 years later to a few weeks ago. M picked up a virus or bug from somewhere and the first thing to mention is that it fortunately went away after a couple of days and was not serious. However, she was really poorly and, one night, woke up around 1am clearly distressed. I got out of bed, went into her room and picked her up, hoping to calm her and soothe her back to sleep. That was when I heard ‘the noise’. You all know it, the noise that is to a bout of vomiting what a flash of lightning is to thunder. Standing there in just my pants (sorry for the visual image), I knew what was coming…and I could do nothing about it. Linda Blair from ‘The Exorcist’ was about to have some serous competition.
I was covered, M was covered and so I bolted to the bathroom to clear her up first and try and calm her down, all the time looking like I’d just been ‘gunged’ on Noel’s House Party. Even with my wife gallantly assisting, the whole operation took a while. Getting past it mentally took even longer.
The next day, I sent my mother a text to update her on M’s condition (she was due to look after her a couple of days later). I’d suddenly been reminded of the bed slat incident so mentioned that this was probably karma catching up with me over two decades later. I just expected her to just shrug it off to be honest, if she even remembered it. This was her reply:
“I have to tell you honestly that crossed my mind!!! Hahaha xx”
So there we go. Whilst parenting is a wonderful, fulfilling, amazing experience full of love and joy, it also has a habit of bringing up (pun totally intended) your own childhood incidents and exacting revenge for them. The bed slats may be long gone, but they clearly have not been forgotten. Bon appetit!