When Norovirus Turns Your Life into a Helen Mirren Drama

Let me set the stage: It’s a peaceful morning. The birds are chirping, the coffee grinder is sounding like a plane taking off, and I’m feeling great as I am a morning person. That is, until my husband emerges from the bathroom looking like he’s just escaped a Victorian sanatorium. Before I can offer to call ye olde doctor, he runs back into the bathroom. I won’t share the sounds I heard coming from the bathroom, but most of you have seen Oppenheimer, so you are probably familiar with explosive sounds. That’s when I realize we’ve been hit by the plague—norovirus.

Now, norovirus isn’t just any stomach bug; it’s the Stephen King novel of stomach bugs. Terrifying, relentless, and full of unexpected plot twists. My husband tries to find comfort on the couch in between runs to the bathroom. Pun intended. Of course, this means I’ve been cast as his Florence Nightingale. Or, as the day progresses, more like Helen Mirren in 1923, battling through hardship with grit and a slightly unhinged glint in my eye, even more unhinged than usual.

And then there are our three Great Danes. If you’ve never had the pleasure of owning three massive, slobbering, loveable beasts, let me paint you a picture: it’s like caring for a trio of furry toddlers, each weighing as much as a small car. These dogs don’t care that my husband is sick or that I’m one digestive mishap away from losing my sanity. They demand their meals and cuddles on a strict schedule—norovirus be damned.

Picture this: I’m trying to wrangle all three Danes outside for their morning bathroom break while wearing what can only be described as “plague chic”—a ratty bathrobe, mismatched socks, and rubber gloves because I’m not taking any chances with contamination. One dog is sniffing something suspicious in the bushes, another is attempting to chase a squirrel, and the third has decided now is the perfect time to sit and ponder life. Meanwhile, I’m hollering commands like a ranch hand on a cattle drive, channeling my inner Helen Mirren and fully expecting a camera crew to pop out at any moment to capture my Emmy-worthy performance.

Back inside, my husband is groaning from the couch, requesting “just water.” The Danes, sensing weakness, have decided the couch is now theirs. So there I am, playing referee between a sick man and three dogs who think they purchased our living room furniture so it is rightly theirs. The whole scene feels like something out of a period drama where the heroine is teetering on the edge but somehow manages to pull it all together with sheer determination and a strong cup of tea. I’m gonna need a lot more than tea.

As the day wears on, I’m reminded of a key lesson Helen Mirren’s characters always teach us: resilience. Whether you’re battling wild animals in the Montana wilderness or a house full of chaos and contagion, you dig deep, you square your shoulders, and you handle it with a mix of grace and exasperation. And maybe a flask full of liquor.

By the time night falls, my husband is finally sleeping, the Danes are sprawled out like giant, furry throw pillows, and I’m collapsing into a chair with the energy of a deflated balloon. I’ve survived the day. Taylor Sheridan should film my life.