I am the last of my kind: the lone healthy survivor of the gastroenteritis that destroyed our household empire at the end of 2009. It attacked the smallest among our ranks first, and then nefariously turned her against us, as she became an agent of disease, spreading the sickness wherever she crawled and cuddled. It worked its way up the ranks from there, as the eldest child complained of "tummy hurts" from bath time until bedtime, and then vomited soon after going to bed. Having somehow never experienced this most unpleasant sensation in her four years of life I had to explain to her that what she was doing was called throwing up. "Why am I throwing up?" she asked innocently and imploringly. Curse you evil virus! Curse you!
Not satisfied with taking our young, the creature aimed higher, and Julia was in its clutches from midnight on. Rest was fleeting at best, as every 10-15 minutes someone would need attention, or a sip of water, or a run to the lavatory.
Now I sit alone in my household, the last healthy member of the family. Every female human is passed out asleep under heavy blankets, but mercifully keeping their fluids to themselves. I don't know how much longer I have. I'm trusting in my immune system's years of hospital exposures to get me through this. It's either that, or sheer willpower, because man I cannot emphasize enough how much I loathe vomiting.
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