We've reached Day 8 of the Barf-a-thon and the good news is, we're just about done. That's right. Everyone has barfed as much as they possibly could, and there's simply no one left to infect. I asked Michael to take me on a drive this evening, since I have only left my home twice in the last week and a day. It was lovely. I brought extra barf bags just in case.
That being said, I've found myself feeling grateful. Yes, we've all been miserably disgusting and our house reeks and we're so tired and cranky, but we're all fine. Even at the worst moments, with my poor baby girl just retching her guts out every twenty minutes all night long, Michael hundreds of miles away, I always knew that we'd be fine. The virus would pass, we'd all get better, we'd laugh about it in three weeks.
A few days ago I read an article about the cholera hitting the refugees in Haiti. Without clean water, they can't prevent it, and healthy grown adults die from dehydration before then can even get to a clinic. Children don't have a chance. When those children get sick, I can only imagine the fear that strikes their mother's hearts.
Never once in the last week have I had to fear. I've always known we would be fine, that my children were safe. Yes, I was inconvenienced. Yes, we have been uncomfortable. But I am so grateful that we live in a place and a manner where I never for a moment have had to be afraid.
1 year ago