My wife was the first to succumb, late on a Sunday night while clutching her stomach in the manner of a child desperate to avoid another week in school. Like any dutiful husband, I presumed she was overreacting, until she refused first a movie, then a glass of wine, and I knew things were serious. An hour later, any doubts were put to rest as she bolted to the bathroom to be floridly, extravagantly sick. It was clear that norovirus had arrived. Soon, our son was also showing an enthusiasm for the new family business in home redecoration, by projecting a pint of beige mulch on to the couch, formed from the cream cheese wrap we’d fed him minutes earlier.
At this point I had two choices. I could either act as brave caregiver, clutching my disease-ridden family to my breast, caring not about the damage to my own immune system. Or, and look just hear me out, might I not push them away in the hopes of saving myself? Would not the smart, in fact the noble, thing be to safeguard my own health as best as I could – all the better to provide for them in the long run?
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