We have the plague.
Okay, not the actual plague, but both of my children have wicked intestinal bugs that are not resolving quickly, like good viruses are supposed to.
And there’s nothing I can do. There’s no medicine that will make their illnesses shorter, no way to help them need the bathroom less often. They’re teenagers now, so they can mostly know when the bad stuff is coming, and can take care of it themselves (no more sound of vomit hitting the floor as heard through a baby monitor, a sound that I will never forget and that haunts me to this day).
It reminds me of the post I wrote a couple of weeks ago, that included the phrase, The only way out is through. I said those very words to my grey-faced son a few minutes ago. Indeed, as with so many things, the only way out of this illness is to let it takes its course — as if we have any choice in the matter…
Yes, I’m trying to make them as comfortable as possible. I’ve got Saltines and Gatorade and applesauce and many other plain foods available for whenever they’re ready. I’m nagging them about drinking something, anything, both to guard against dehydration and to give them something to throw up (because it hurts less to throw up something than to keep throwing up nothing). I’m running up and down the stairs in response to their texted requests for highly important items like computer and phone chargers. I’m doing all their laundry (one of my standard responses when the plague enters the house). And I’m washing my hands as often as I can and disinfecting the living daylights out of the house.
Don’t laugh. We may need to resort to the flame-throwing level of cleaning soon.
I send you thoughts of good health. And if that fails, good humor.