Wow, so, so, so derelict in duty.

What have I been doing? Well, let’s revisit the mystery illness.

As I said, my daughter was ill – throwing up, dry heaves, exhausted – for a day. After about 48 hours of yuck, I trudged off to urgent care.

The diagnosis? Gastroenteritis. In retrospect, though, I think that was because a) I’d had it before, and b) it was clear from my tone and glare that I wasn’t leaving that room without a prescription to make the spasms stop.

(I don’t get like that very often. I’m not the one those “you don’t need an antibiotic” warning posters are talking to. But disabling pain makes me cranky.)

The next day, my husband was wiped out. Stomach flu, the family doctor said.

Hmm. And then hmmer, as we pondered the norovirus whacking Gladwin County, where he hunts.

It took me two weeks to fully recover. Twice when I thought I was fine, eating food cooked outside my home brought the misery rushing back.

At work, Ralph would offer food and I’d shake my head. “I’m afraid to eat,” I told him.

“Good luck with that,” he replied.

I must be OK. I’ve eaten at McDonald’s and Pizza Sam the last few days and been fine (nothing against either of those places, truly).

But I’m not tossing the leftover drugs.

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