We think that we have narrowed the cause of illness to some bad eggs. Of couse, we didn't know they were bad at the time, but as I was the only one that ate them, this seems logical.
When I got up this morning, I discovered that I had lost 6 1/2 pounds. Yesterday. And was still going. While I was not adverse in general to the idea of losing a few pounds, this is far from the ideal method. It would, however, be a very effective wartime torture method.
Today involved lots of laying around, as I don't really have enough strength to do anything else. I forced myself to take lots of teeny tiny sips of Gatorade, some of which were actually staing in by afternoon. As a side note, did you know that there are now three types of Gatorade, specifically designed for the level of exercise of the drinker? But as none of those are specifically labeled for the violently ill, they all tasted disgusting to me.
I managed to keep in some pretzels, eaten cautionsly over a painfully long period of time, for lunch. By dinnertime, I hadn't consumed any real food for 48 hours and was really hungry. Oddly enough, all I could think about was how I wanted a Jimmy John's sandwich (an obsession which started with the bread, but soon grew to include the whole sandwich), so Ben got me one on the way home from work. I thought I'd only make it through a few bites, but it tasted so good that I ate the whole thing, and while the following hours have involved some jaw clenching and some very stern instructions to my stomach to stop roiling, it has stayed in so far.
In short, I think I'm on the road to recovery and hope to even get out of my pajamas tomorrow.