It wasnâ€™t the catfish and it wasnâ€™t food poisoning. Nah, it turned out to be old-fashioned, gut-wrenching, colon-flushing, stomach-contents hurling, fever-raging flu.
And, as I always try to do with my bride of 26 years, I shared. Good thing this house has three bathrooms.
Sunday started out looking better but queasiness sat back in Sunday night and Monday dawned feverish and bowel-contentious. Then things seemed to get better by late afternoon and I tried to eat something.
Wrong. By midnight, back on my knees in the john, testing the limits of my stomach muscles and the Thompson septic system.
Amy? Sheâ€™s somewhere in the house, not too far from a bathroom, probably plotting my demise in some gruesome way for sharing this demon called the flu.
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