In the house where I grew up, there was a big bottle of Pepto Bismol in the medicine cabinet. It may have been the same bottle for twenty years.
It was a small family, a mother and a father and two daughters. When anyone got sick, someone else always offered Pepto Bismol. I never accepted. Neither did my sister. I have a vague recollection of offering it to my mother once when she was sick, and a vague recollection of her declining. Feeling sick was one thing: there was always the faint hope that the inevitable would not come to pass. Taking a dose of that pink stuff, I was certain, would hasten the cleansing process.
My sister married a man who took Pepto Bismol when sick. She marveled but did not convert. I married a man who in 41+ years has had a stomach sickness (other than a case of food poisoning) exactly once. We don't have Pepto Bismol in our house. Tums and Pepcid, to be sure. But not the pink stuff.
All of this by way of explaining my absence from blogland the past three days. We were at Sherry's on Saturday night and she casually mentioned that Caroline had thrown up earlier. Carrie was off her feed, but her usual cheerful, winsome self.
The sickness struck me on Sunday night, a few hours after my last post about my splendid weekend. I was very sick all night and all day Monday and well into Tuesday. I had hoped to return to work today, even got up and showered and dressed, and then crawled back into the bed. Tomorrow, as Scarlett would quickly point out, is another day.
My sister came to visit yesterday, bringing sympathy, consolation, and offers of jello. Thank God, she didn't bring the pink stuff.