Last Friday James had some sort of malevolent stomach bug. Saturday, Sunday, and Monday passed, and I congratulated myself on my iron constitution. Tuesday arrived, and by mid-afternoon, I knew things were not going to go my way.
Then, the longest 12 hours of my life passed by, followed by another miserable, but maybe not quite so desperate, 16.
Then I stripped the bed, washed towels and clothes, and threw away toothbrushes. I completely understand why people would burn everything after scarlet fever. I would gladly give away everything I touched Tuesday-Wednesday if I could never go through that again.
Things are returning to normal. I woke up this morning wanting a bagel, and started out at a pretty brisk clip to get one. Half a block later I had slowed down and slumped over and had to remind myself that I'm on the mend. The only other hold-over I've noticed is a strong aversion to The Canterbury Tales, which I was reading when I started to feel sick.
Though, if I'm being totally honest, that aversion didn't start with this flu.
February, February; let's not do this again.