If you come down with the 24 to 48 hour rat bastard throw up your toenails stomach Flu, You really really shouldn't read Kitchen Confidential to pass the time.
48 hours. Sick enough to let someone else make me a cup of tea and bring it to me in bed. Of course, I am mostly over it now. I have to be. The Footless Man just got carted off to the E room in the aftermath of insulin shock.
I wafted downstairs in search of nourishment not too long ago to find him huddled in a chair mumbling to the television (it was off) with his substantial lunch uneaten on a plate beside him. It was one of those combative times where he wasn't having anything to do with being nice about eating glucose so I called 911.
He will be calling me as soon as his discharge papers are in hand.
Is it silly of me to wish that for once I could be ill and not have to rise to the occasion of another emergency?
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