WARNING: This entry gets a little queasy.

Last time, I offered only the briefest of mentions concerning Beth and my mother's holiday-cheer related illnesses. Apparently, those wrathful gastro-intestinal gods found this as an unacceptable tribute and saw fit to exact their revenge upon me. And boy did they. While Beth certainly suffered her own troubles that included that most miserable transcontinental flight of her life, she will be the first to admit that I was hit much harder. Starting late last Tuesday, I began the tedious process of expelling everything in my body through every available opening. By Wednesday night, after vomiting blood and the last drop of fluids I tried to intake for the day, Beth and I began to nervously debate whether I should go to a hospital despite my healthy fear of them (son of a doctor, you know).

While I have never been sicker in my adult life, I still managed to dodge the ER bullet this time. Thank the gods for Saltines and Gatorade. Back on my feet again but still a little weak, I finally made it back in to work today. It'll probably be a few weeks before I'm 100%, but at least I'm not in that swirling hell of nausea and acheiness anymore. And, Mom and Beth are doing better, too.