Courage at Twilight: Insult to Injury

The text came at 2:32 a.m.  “I am sick.  Siiiiiick.”  Vomiting.  Chills.  Sweats.  Body Aches.  Withering weakness.  He thought it might be food poisoning from the cold cuts or hard-boiled eggs sitting in the hospital cafeteria cartons for who know how long.  Or a bug.  Either way, he was down for the count.  The next night, Mom threw up, but she did not get sick, just a bit tired.  I drove Steve to the airport Sunday morning, glad he was better, glad Mom did not get sick, glad I had escaped.  But about 2:45 a.m. the next night the scene replayed itself, and I was siiiiiick.  I was useless to the world, no help to anyone.  I just hunkered down under the covers, chugged Pepto Bismol, slept, tried to watch movies, tried to stay hydrated, tried to keep the family abreast, tried to stay abreast.  The hospital had sent us home with a norovirus.  A gift.  A joke.  Sarah has held down the hospital fort, with Carolyn and Megan for company, even though her own father-in-law passed away in-between-times.  She goes back to work tomorrow, at the facility to which Dad will be moved, perhaps tomorrow.  Jeanette flies in the next day to take a long shift.  We are all managing, if barely.  And it is enough.

(Artist renditions of pathogen by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay.)

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