I'll just start off by saying, you know it's going to be bad when you puke up the medicine you just took to keep you from puking. It was five days of pure abdominal torture that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy - including the lady who flipped me off and shared a small piece of her mind with me this morning because she apparently didn't like how I was driving. Not sure what her problem was, but just when I thought there was absolutely nothing left in my stomach, my stomach proved me wrong. And the nausea, oh, the nausea. Thank the good Lord for indoor plumbing because otherwise I might've just had to take a blanket with me and camp outside.
I'm doing better. Not completely over it because I'm still dealing with, you guessed it, some nausea, and I'm still kind of afraid to eat, but I'm heading back to work today and I'm currently not wearing pajamas. So I'll take that as a good sign.
Wilson, my 25.5 pound ball of fluffy goodness, attempted to sit on my lap and kept me company in my fight for survival and Phil kept me supplied in ginger ale and puking meds and I watched a bunch of episodes of The Wonder Years on Netflix. It was a good time.