I typed a cryptic message to my family on WhatsApp: “Writing in from the RED alert zone.” It started.
Then I detailed how my son had bravely thrown up six times in five hours overnight.
I knew from experience that I was next. I just didn’t know when. “It’s been two years since I last threw up,” I typed grimly. “Wish me luck.”
My aunts wisely canceled our family brunch scheduled for that weekend. I canceled a dinner with my friends and their kids, too, afraid to infect anyone else. My son complained about having to drink Pedialyte instead of milk and bounced right back to his chipper, active self.
Meanwhile, I kept our family in quarantine, and waited. I took a plaintive sip of Pedialyte, too, steeling myself for what was to come.
“No puke yet!” I wrote in my journal the first night. But I didn’t let hope creep in.
On the second day, I felt a little less sorry for myself and began to strategize.
