Once upon a time I had a pain. It wasn’t a mild one, either. It was one of those “kill me now” things, where I tried to ignore and wait it out, and after 20 minutes I drove to the nearest walk-in clinic. The doctor pronounced that I had gastroenteritis and wrote me three prescriptions.

I went to the neighborhood drugstore – did I mention that I live near a business district and practically EVERYTHING is in my neighborhood – and the pharmacist said it’d be 20 minutes or so before he could fill my order. I didn’t want to stand in his store, but I wanted even less to go home, get settled in and then have to move again. I said I’d wait.

Shortly thereafter he looked up with my papers in his hand, and said to be getting all this stuff, I must feel really horrible. Why yes, thanks. Keep filling those bottles.

Suffice it to say that’s one illness I never wanted again. Bwahahaha! Foolish mortal!

Saturday morning my daughter tumbled down the stairs, threw up and announced she had done so twice earlier – in her bedroom. Not long after the pains struck me.

She got over hers the same day. Monday I still wasn’t feeling any better so I trotted off to the doctor, who gave me drugs that would make the spasms stop. About three doses later they did.

Yay, I thought. I won’t be waking up in the middle of the night in dire pain. I’ll get a good night’s sleep, which is good because this bug has been wiping me out.

Nope. My husband was next on the list, starting around 2 a.m.

I brought him purple Gatorade this morning. “It’s a real ass kicker, isn’t it?” I said. He nodded, mumbled, went back to sleep.

At least he waited until I started recovering.

One day we might eat solid food again. In the meantime, his company gave turkeys to all the employees and his started thawing, so we planned to roast it this weekend. Saturday was no good, Sunday even worse. Monday I couldn’t wait any longer, so I dutifully placed it in the oven.

I nearly gagged taking it out, which is a shame. It was done, according to both the pop-up timer and the meat thermometer. (If you don’t have a meat thermometer, you really should get one.) I just couldn’t take the smell of hot fresh food.

The golden bird is in the refrigerator in the basement, on a cutting board and wrapped in foil, just waiting for the designated carver to have at it. From the snores I hear from the couch, it’s not happening anytime soon.

This post originally appeared on ourMidland.com, the online home of the Midland (MI) Daily News. Republished with permission.