Empty bottles of hand sanitizer are strewn about like shotgun shells on an abandoned battlefield. The hum and clank of our washing machine combined with the syncopated rhythm of cats batting around used paper towel rolls provides some white noise.
It’s tranquil here since the influenza agreed to a temporary cease-fire. Retching, moaning, and cries of “Babe! I need some help over here!” have been replaced by meek requests for food and water.
The first attack hit Silas Tuesday morning. Another wave struck younger Arlo on Sunday. Now Lindsay and I wait-out the incubation period, scrutinizing any gurgle or cramp like soldiers in a Vietnamese jungle frozen in place after hearing a twig snap.
“What was that? A burp? Yes, just a burp. Good.”
Every routine bathroom visit is accompanied by a sense of foreboding. The first attack could come at any moment, but the enemy is sly and ruthless, pouncing only after its prey has relinquished all paranoia.
“Well, looks like we’re in the clear,” is almost always followed 4 hours later by, “Remember when I said we were all in the clear earlier? Yea, I was wrong. Either that or I’m allergic to Boca Burgers.”
I’m acutely aware that the enemy has me surrounded. It’s on this keyboard, in my bed, on my glasses, in my slippers. It’s inescapable. Each time I bite my fingernails, I think, “Welp, that’s it. You win, Norovirus.”
Children and young adults are far more physically equipped for being violently ill. At 39, I certainly fear the discomfort caused by my body rejecting everything inside it. Even more terrifying, however, is the likelihood that vomiting will cause me to re-injure my neck. While the Norovirus will leave me within 36 hours, I won’t be able to turn my head for a week and a half.
At least I’ll be able to blog about how I pulled a muscle puking.