Of my five immediate Loved Ones, four are currently up for intermittent bouts of huddling over the toilet - wishing for a quick death. The toilet part is mostly wishful thinking as less than a third of the 'episodes' has actually involved one. I'm on my third load of laundry tonight and there have been ample tears and "Why does God allow this to happen to me?" The only one spared was not actually spared, but just the first little fellow to fall, and thankfully by now, his turn of alternating retching and moaning has ended. They're like dominoes. Or flies.
My hands are dry and chapped from exposure to toxic cleaners and from frequent dunks into newly soapy water. My floors and the bedding in their rooms are pristine from excessive and oft repeated scrubbing. I'm more than a little stunned that I'm still OK myself, frankly, and I'm thinking that my $12 flu shot - spontaneously purchased during a meander through Costco with my Dad - was well worth it.
JoyBoy, whilst splayed out on the couch in a sort of lethargic, vomit-induced desperation, helped me laugh in the middle of it all when he said, this has taken some of the tinsel and sheen off of bulemia for me. He then asked me to remind him to get the flu shot next year.