Jeff got sick on the weekend and I tried to ignore it and encouraged him to go to his work trip to Winnipeg this week. I even baked him a banana loaf to take with him.

Instead he stayed here, where we both battled what was likely a norovirus.

Work on Monday started normally for me. I was a little nauseous. Then I threw up a bit while swallowing a pepto-bismol. I decided to sign out of work to lay down for a bit. First I went downstairs to put some wood on the fire first. After putting the first log in the woodstove, I puked all over my hand, my arm, up my sleeve, and all over the floor.

Huh? What was this?

After that it was downhill fast. Violent puking (both ends). The kind of heaving that doesn’t allow you to inhale. The kind that wrings out your body and squeezes out all the fluid, leaving you in a sad dehydrated heap.

I spent about 36 hours in bed. Jeff mustered up the strength to go into town for some sports drinks to try to rehydrate me. I laid in bed, on my back (sides too sore from wretching), watching tv, trying to keep gravol down, freezing, sweating, hallucinating, drinking a few drops at a time. I thought I slept some, but I remember watching so much of the Olympics (including some hilarious commentary for the giant parallel slalom qualifying runs at 1 or 2 am when they were likely sure no one was watching), and so much tv – Seinfeld, Rules of Engagement (really like this show, hadn’t watched it much before), Jimmy Kimmel, the National, Arsenio, 30 Rock, basically whatever was on.

I think I ate just 5 soda crackers in those 36 hours.

Life is returning to normal today, little shaky and weak and am still not eating much, but was able to muster up some loud cheer while watching the Canadian women’s hockey team come back to win gold today in overtime. What a game!