Puka Cana: The Night of the Living Dread

Day 10 - Punta Cana

** Ceditor’s note: Since we were dealing with sickness, exhaustion and emergencies we don’t have a lot of pictures for this day **

Our day began precisely where the previous one left off: just before midnight, with Lola attempting to sleep off what we suspected was a bout of gastro. Being miles away from home, my comfort level plummeted to negative 100. My mind raced with questions: How quickly could we access emergency services if needed? Would language barriers trip us up? Could this escalate into something dire? That last question fueled my paternal paranoia, keeping me wide-eyed through the night.

Sophie, ever the voice of reason, settled into her bed and managed to drift off, her earlier words echoing in my mind: "You're no good to her or us exhausted." She was right, of course, but my brain had shifted into overdrive, and there was no hitting the brakes now. Lola began to toss and turn—a foreboding sign. Minutes later, her stomach joined the rebellion, ejecting its contents (mostly bile and liquid) onto our shared bed. She lay there, unresponsive, in the aftermath—a fresh log for my nightmare bonfire.

I scooped her up and rushed to the bathroom, anticipating more eruptions. I wasn't disappointed. Waking Sophie, I flagged the latest development. She stayed with Lola while I assessed the bed situation. Stripping the sheets, I was relieved to find a mattress cover—until I realized it, too, had fallen victim to the purge. We were rapidly depleting our towel and linen reserves. Sophie called guest services for reinforcements. Meanwhile, Lola, exhausted, collapsed on the bathroom floor, where we’d laid down some clean towels. She still hadn’t grasped the concept of aiming for the toilet and was also contending with diarrhea throughout the night—a quick diaper change being our only respite.

Two staff members arrived promptly with fresh linens, making the bed while we prayed Wesley wouldn’t wake. Once they left, I preemptively stripped the bed down to a single sheet, anticipating further incidents. We brought Lola back to bed, and this time, Sophie lay beside her, slipping into mother-warrior mode and falling asleep as if it were newborn sleep training all over again—except with more puke and less cute. This allowed me to collapse into the other bed, hoping for some rest. That hope was short-lived; Lola woke up wanting me. She climbed into our only clean bed, and I, resigned, returned us both to the contaminated zone, reactivating my alert status.

Most of the night was spent rubbing her back and head, trying to comfort her. Occasionally, I’d doze off, only to jolt awake as if plummeting off a cliff. Lola continued to vomit, again and again, until we exhausted our linen supply. Sheets? Gone. Towels? History. Diapers? Running low. I began to question whether I should start engineering irrigation channels for the deluge. The resort staff would either judge us harshly or place us on some sanitation watchlist. In the end, I resorted to using two towels to cover the stained mattress and one to keep Lola warm. Guest services had stopped answering our calls. We were on our own.

Reaching the bathroom in time was a lost cause. Lola had zero control over the situation and was already suffering enough. I scoured the room for a makeshift puke bucket, reminiscent of my childhood. The bathroom trash can won the nomination. This small adjustment made the ordeal slightly more bearable for Lola. She’d wake violently; I’d position the bucket, and we’d catch everything. This routine repeated, with Sophie or me rinsing and washing the bucket each time. Around this time, I warned Sophie that I likely had whatever Lola had. My stomach churned, and I was experiencing ominous burps. It could have been the stress, but deep down, I knew something was off. I’ve always hated puking; it was one of the main reasons I avoided heavy drinking in my youth.

Around 2 a.m., Wesley woke up crying, inconsolable. We feared he’d caught the bug, but there was no diarrhea or vomiting. None of Sophie’s motherly magic worked, so I offered to take him for a stroll around the resort to calm him. Sophie took over Lola duty as I headed out with Wesley in the stroller. Within seconds, he stopped crying, soaking in the night air and curiously observing his surroundings. I walked and walked, eventually reaching the main lobby just in time for my stomach to declare mutiny. A quick bathroom visit confirmed I was now a member of the gastro club—Jackson Pollock of the posterior.

Deciding to stay close to our room in case of further emergencies, I paced the main road outside. Wesley began to doze off, so I returned to the room to check on the situation. Sophie, naturally, had everything under control, but Lola was still rejecting any liquid she consumed. We transferred Wesley back to his crib, and I focused on Lola.

After giving her some water to quench her thirst, I started a stopwatch to see how long it would stay down. Sadly, less than 17 minutes later, it reappeared. We repeated this process, each time with the same result. Desperate for her to retain fluids, I convinced her to rest before drinking more, aiming for an hour without incident.

This marked a turning point. After an hour, she was still sleeping. Gently, I woke her and offered a small sip of water, which she eagerly accepted. I restarted the stopwatch. Another hour passed—success. I gave her a larger portion; she downed it and returned to sleep. Watching each minute tick by, I felt the weight of worry lift as she kept the water down. Relief washed over me, and exhaustion finally took hold. I lay beside my brave little girl, cuddled her tight, and surrendered to sleep. It was close to 6 a.m.

Despite the ordeal, sleep was scarce. Lola woke up first, bright-eyed and ready for the day. She announced her stomach felt better and that she was happy. A part of me wept inside; I couldn’t fully release my fears until she reassured me. I told her how happy I was, and she jumped into my arms for a long hug. I squeezed her tightly, expressing my love repeatedly. I tell her often, but it never feels like enough. Thankfully, she hugs me back just as tightly, whispering she loves me too. Such a simple exchange, yet one of my favorites in my half-century of existence.

The morning shift found two unwilling participants with lifelong contracts and no exit clauses. We both wished to call in sick—or dead—but Sophie, ever the saint, took the lead. On rare occasions, we summon a substitute, and after the night we’d endured, running on fumes, it was time for the big guns: the tablet. I set Lola up beside me, and she happily immersed herself while I drifted back into oblivion. She mentioned being thirsty—no kidding, kiddo! I provided generous servings of water and milk, which she chugged like a frat bro at a keg stand. Moments later, she complained of a tummy ache. Panic mode activated, then subsided as I realized she’d overindulged too quickly. I advised her to rest and watch her shows; thankfully, the discomfort passed.

At 7:45 AM, Wesley woke up sporting a diaper that could have doubled as a biological weapon. Our room smelled like the aftermath of a failed science experiment. With no tablet to offload this doodie duty, Sophie heroically tackled the organic biohazard. She then took him out to the porch for some much-needed fresh air and to let Wesley explore his surroundings.

At this point, I collapsed—both literally and spiritually. My body shut down, my brain hit the “nope” button, and I became one with the mattress. Then, something unexpected happened. Lola, my chaotic, energetic, 3-going-on-15-year-old daughter, decided it was her turn to take care of me. She turned on the white noise (genius move, honestly), climbed onto my back, and laid down on me. She stroked my hair, my cheeks. Then she lay beside me, giving me the kind of cuddles I didn’t know I needed. Just like that, all the exhaustion, fear, frustration, and sleeplessness melted away. A little while later, she got up to see her mother and check out what action she was missing.

Lying there in the quiet alone, I had a full emotional release. I cried silently, tears streaming down my cheeks, letting go of all that had happened. Like most parents, I hate seeing my kids suffer. I hate feeling powerless. I was beyond tired, but more than anything, I was deeply touched by this little girl’s kindness. My daughter is such a wonderful and empathetic human being at such a young age; I couldn’t be more proud and, above all else, more touched.

A moment later, Lola came back in and saw me crying. She asked if I was sad. "Kind of," I admitted. She nodded, like some tiny wise monk, then asked me to sit up so she could hug me. Then, in her sweet little voice, she whispered, "It’s gonna be okay, Daddy." And that broke me even more. This last night was not exactly the kind of night vacation dreams are made of. But somehow, between the puke, the poop, and the sheer lack of sleep, we found something even better than a perfect beach day—a reminder that, no matter how rough it gets, our family takes care of each other. Even when we smell like death. Even when we’re running on fumes. Even when we’re drowning in soiled linens and regret. Because at the end of the day, love is messy. Parenting is survival. And sometimes, the smallest people in our lives remind us what really matters.

After our slow morning, we decided to get ready in slow motion—why break a streak? I was definitely not feeling breakfast, still fighting the puke vibes my body was sending me, but figured we would give it a try. Our friends were hesitant to connect with us given the sickness, and honestly, I didn’t blame them. So we hit the buffet LJM family solo style. I ate nothing, and Lola ate next to nothing. Sophie and I both wanted Lola to rest today, so we set her up with unlimited tablet time in the stroller, and she was all too willing to comply. Since two of us were out of commission and Sophie was not feeling well either, we opted to keep it simple and head to the kiddie pirate pool so Wesley could enjoy his day while we quietly faded into the background—well, at least Lola and I, as Sophie had to keep Wesley company in the pool.

She set him up in the floatie boat thingy so he could zip around the pool roadrunner style. To our surprise, our friends eventually showed up to join us but kept their distance. A little before lunch, the tablet died. I was feeling queasy, so I volunteered to go charge the tablet back at the room so I could be near a toilet. I was also hoping to perhaps get some rest. When I arrived, housekeeping had already passed, thankfully, so we had two clean beds again, and I collapsed on one of them. I woke up in the mid-afternoon with Sophie asking me where I was. We were both tired, exhausted, and sick, and she didn’t appreciate me going incognito mode without warning—and she was right to object. I hadn’t warned her that I wasn’t coming back. I apologized and thanked her for being such an incredible partner.

We did our best to entertain Wesley. Lola was back up and running with a fully charged tablet. We went to check out the kids' playroom and let him run around to get some energy out. It had one other infant who had soiled his diaper hard, and Daddy was nowhere in sight to change him, so we decided not to stay there much longer for fear of more poop-themed stories and memories manifesting. It was around this time that Sophie noticed Wesley’s right ear leaking. Not another ear infection. Sophie was doing such a great job of cleaning his nasal passages with a saline wash every day, multiple times a day. We hoped to avoid yet another infection for our poor little boy.

Thankfully, there is a doctor available at the resort, so off we went to see what could be done for Wesley. We also contemplated consulting about Lola, but she did seem to be doing much better. She wasn’t eating much, but she was getting plenty of rest and liquids. It didn't take long to see the doctor, and after a quick examination, he confirmed that Wesley was suffering from an ear infection. To make matters worse, he might have bronchitis or pneumonia. To confirm, we would need to consult an off-site pediatrician at their private clinic. He also flagged that if not cleared quickly, Wesley wouldn't be fit to fly. He recommended we grab our supper at the buffet ASAP so he could call us a cab for a 20-minute ride to the clinic.

Sophie and I argued over splitting up or staying together. Under normal circumstances, we would have all gone together without a second thought, but given the night we just had, especially for Lola, I strongly leaned toward staying back with her. But ultimately, something didn't sit quite right with splitting the family up in a strange country. So we stayed together, which was Sophie's preferred option from the get-go. By the time we got into the taxi, it was a little after 7 PM. Lola basically fell asleep on me in the back seat while Wesley fell asleep on Sophie. Lucky for both of them, we brought the megatron stroller with king-size reclining sofa seats for them to sleep in—and sleep they did. Only the two exhausted parents were left to endure in a zombie-like awake state as we tried to get Wesley properly treated.

At the clinic, they were expecting us, as the doctor had transferred his initial examination to them. We explained that we had coverage from our insurance and just needed to call them to get a file number. They clearly deal with this often, as they had two dedicated phones off to the side for just this situation. I got on the phone and proceeded to wait forever for someone to pick up on the other end. Good thing we stuck together, because Sophie could focus on the kids in the meantime while my life force drained away waiting on insurance to pick up the phone. She walked around, including outside, as it was freezing in the clinic. She even got Lola a hospital bed sheet to cover her up.

While I was still on the phone, Wesley got called in, so Sophie went ahead without me—another big win for sticking together. Meanwhile, I was outside battling the elements, suffering from what I can only assume was third-degree frostbite, waiting for our insurance to pick up. Forty minutes deep, the line suddenly went dead. Fuming doesn’t even begin to describe my state of mind. I had to start the whole process over again.

Sophie had mentioned they were in the first room on the left past the waiting room door, so I joined them and filled her in on my insurance-induced descent into madness. Instead of subjecting myself to another round of rotary-phone torture, Sophie pulled out the big guns—WiFi and Skype. She even found a shortcut online that might fast-track her to an agent. While she worked her magic, I took over Wesley duty since they needed to wake him up for his examination. Wesley, of course, was thrilled about this development.

Eventually, the pediatrician came back with backup, ready to tackle the gunk-filled abyss that was my son's ear. Armed with a syringe and an ungodly amount of saline, they got to work. And let me tell you—whatever pain I imagined, Wesley one-upped it. I had to hold him down as he screamed like he was auditioning for a horror movie. Brutal. But necessary. Once the ear was cleared, the doctor confirmed that while his eardrum was irritated, it hadn’t burst—good news! She also noted mild lung congestion, but with the right meds, he’d be on the mend in no time. She left to gather the prescriptions, and I stayed behind, trying to console my precious, resilient, and very loudly opinionated little boy. But in true Wesley fashion, the moment the ordeal was over, he was back to smiling and waving at literally anyone willing to make eye contact.

Meanwhile, Sophie—who apparently holds a PhD in Cutting Through Bureaucratic Nonsense—got through to an agent a lot faster than I did. They opened a case file, meaning all expenses would be billed directly to them. A relief, considering the bill had already soared past $1,000 USD. A doctor eventually returned with our extensive grocery list of meds: two oral prescriptions, one ear drop, and a lineup of hydration packets. We went over the precise and intricate instructions for Wesley’s recovery—essentially a potion-brewing masterclass—and were finally discharged.

But hold your applause. We couldn’t leave just yet. The clinic needed final insurance confirmation before letting us off the hook. Midnight was creeping up, and we spent another hour waiting. Sophie, sensing the sands of her patience running low, called them back to apply some well-placed pressure. We just wanted to get our kids into bed and collapse into a human pile of exhaustion. Eventually, the green light came through.

Stepping outside, we asked security to call us a taxi that accepted credit cards—our only request. A well-loved van pulled up, and we loaded up our most precious cargo. As we drove, I couldn’t help but notice an unsettling symphony of mechanical groans and rattles. The dashboard was a Christmas tree of warning lights—including the engine light. Confidence levels? Not high. But despite the car’s questionable state, we miraculously made it back to our resort in one piece.

Then came the kicker—the driver didn’t take credit cards. Of course he didn’t. Miffed doesn’t quite capture my reaction. I had to sprint back to our room, gather the last of our cash, and settle up. This meant our tip money was now gone, and we had no plans to withdraw more.

Finally, we stumbled back to our room, got the kids to bed, and changed into our jammies before collapsing into a well-earned coma. Hands down, this was the longest day we’ve ever had at an all-inclusive. Sure, tensions ran high, and we took a few emotional bruises, but in the end, we did it. We got our kids back on track to good health, in a foreign country, on sheer fumes and willpower. And judging by Lola’s earlier antics, I have a feeling our kids are cut from the same cloth—just a better version. That thought alone makes me both proud and deeply emotional.

Life is beautiful.

February 2, 2025