I have been as sick as a dog since Wednesday evening of last week—so eight days now. Since Monday—so three days—I have had seven saltines, a mug of chicken broth, a small jello cup, and—my big achievement for today—a piece of toast with jam (which tasted like manna from heaven by this point).
Also a lot of pedialyte. Like, a lot.
I have been to the emergency room twice in the past week, one of those visits because the abdominal pain was bad enough that the doctor thought I might have appendicitis.
I am falling behind on work and burning PTO to cover my absence, I have no energy for anything that requires much in the way of conscious thought, and this spell of illness is kind of the crowning indignity to a frankly rather shitty month.
(Also, as a final indignity, almost everything I watch to pass the time while sick seems to have food in it. You do not truly realize how often people are eating sandwiches, discussing dinner, etc., in television shows and movies until you have not eaten much of anything for a week.)