In the suddenly on-going war between me and my digestive tract, it's not like I didn't put up a good fight. My trusty iron-clad stomach-- which has long been an ally in trauma bays and in dealing with all things gooey, slimy, or bloody-- held tightly to my Cheerios for the first couple of weeks. Together, Floyd, Digestive Tract, and I trudged through tsunamis of nausea with naught but a grimace and some caffeine-free soda on ice. I sort of thought we had a good thing going, really.
The night of March 3rd, Digestive Tract defected, and I lost the battle (upheaval?) with barely a moment's notice.
Don't worry, I made it through like a champ (and, for those of you practical thinkers, to the toilet in time. Praises be.) Lupe seemed more upset by the whole episode than anyone else in the house (though it's admittedly difficult to assess Floyd's reaction what with him being the size of a blueberry and all. Plus, I was puking at the time, so probably not as tuned in as usual.)
In what must be a consolation gift from Digestive Tract (traitor), Floyd and I actually felt stable enough afterwards to give a few of Hubbie's cologne samples the ol' nasal once-over without any serious repercussions, and snuggled in for a good night's sleep.
Since that time, the intensity of the battles has waxed and waned. Officially, Digestive Tract and I have entered into negotiations, but that hasn't stopped the outbreak of violence from local insurgents from time to time. I'd like to say that I foresee a treaty and return to times of peace in the not so distant future, but at this point I'm far too busy establishing diplomatic relations with the inside of my toilet bowl to really commit to anything.