Last Saturday morning, I trimmed the ivy on the front of my house, went to Zumba, and walked two miles at the nearby park. That afternoon, I finished writing a chapter and emailed it to my critique partners. Then I cooked. That evening, Hubs and I watched an episode of Homeland via Netflix. It was an everyday, average Saturday.
On Sunday, I woke up before dawn because my insides boiled and bubbled. Ow! Ow! Ow!
Dr. Google, who's always at the office, seemed to think I'd contracted the Norovirus and advised drinking lots of water. He/She promised the worst would be over in 24 to 48 hours.
Who can't manage a rambunctious stomach for 24 hours? (I conveniently disregarded the number 48.) I resolved to do the stiff upper lip thing and tough it out. Mercifully, I slept a lot, and who's not resolute in sleep? Alas, at nine or ten p.m. that night the worst round of vomiting defeated me. I curled into the fetal position on the bathroom floor, and mumbled, "Help me. Please Help me."
I looked up, and there stood my husband, scared out of his wits.
Notes to self: 1.) The "Keep Calm and Carry On" routine works best when one does, in fact, keep calm and carry on. 2.) If there's a next time for this stomach virus (and I pray there isn't), I'll drop more hints alluding to misery. Apparently, the many naps, multiple trips to the bathroom, and sweater on/sweater off routine didn't do the trick.
Happily, the old saying "The darkest hour is just before dawn" proved true, even on what was the second day of daylight-savings time 2013. Speaking of which, I like to think the clock change shortened my ordeal to 23 hours. (Don't try to convince me otherwise; I need to believe.)
I'd pronounced myself cured days ago, but last night at dinner, my husband mentioned he'd had a Reuben sandwich for lunch.
Sauerkraut. Corned beef. Swiss cheese.
My stomach churned. What to do? What to do?
I thought of England.