We seem to have a metaphorical, yet perpetual, cover of June gloom hovering over our family.
eyeball on a stick a week and a half ago, the misery continues to run through our family. Late Thursday night, our eldest came down with a violent 48 hour stomach virus--the kind which makes you think two facing commodes placed 18 inches apart should be a regular amenity in every bathroom.
Luckily, our youngest had a tournament which began early Friday morning. He and I left before we had an opportunity to even realize the eldest was ill. We packed up and headed out with our bowels and bile still intact.
At 10am, Doc H phoned me to notify me that he had spoken with our eldest prior to leaving for work and notified me of her symptoms. My mind immediately sprinted through the meals I had offered up the day before. Nothing seemed toxic. I felt pretty confident no spew could be blamed on me.
An hour later, Doc H called saying he might be fighting similar symptoms.
By noon, Doc H called me to tell me he cancelled the remainder of his clinic.
My butt puckered.
The man will work through back strains, neck sprains, awful cold viruses, and even a feverous flu. The last time Doc H called in sick was almost ten years ago when he had pneumonia.
This must be some serious shit.
By the time our youngest and I were on our way home, I realized our house was full of shit and vomit. I declared our house a disaster area. Doc H agreed quarantine was a reasonable course of action. I, and the rest of the kids, disbursed, taking shelter away from home with just the clothes on our backs. I wore no make for two days. TWO DAYS. That's right. I ran around town, to and fro sports tournaments, even had conversations with other parents, scaring their own shit out of them (I'm not blind, I realize I lack in the "natural beauty" department-- it's all smoke and mirrors over here) in order to hold onto my own shit.
Two days later on Sunday, we were given the all clear. After Doc H had decontaminated the house with Lysol and our bed with a fresh set of sheets, we hesitantly returned. I found myself holding my breath in the house running outside every 45 seconds for a fresh breath of healthy air.
Today, Doc H returned to the OR with only one meal in his stomach. While his bodily fluids were no longer running amok, he still felt a touch off.
However, the man is always up for a challenge and today, the challenge may just be holding his shit together.
He's a tough shit.