The Critical Mom's Stomach Flu

We've all gone down like ninepins with a flu not as bad as last year's:  then, I couldn't sit up.  Now,  I have the energy to watch You-Tube videos on Nureyev and on The Hunger Games and on Ten Children's Books You Didn't Know Were Racist (but no surprises there) and on anything that popped up on the screen before I stopped myself and said, "What the heck am I doing?"  If I have the energy to sit up I've got to martial it to do the stuff I'm paid to do.  But I'm so tired, after days of holding bowls for vomiting children and washing sheets that got vomited on.  Swabbing floors for the same reason.  Then that day when the washing machine went on the fritz just in time for the projectile vomiting of the younger son, and everything had to be stored in a bathtub for too long.  I'm just plumb wore out and meanwhile, back in Manhattan the wolves are sinking their highly sharpened fangs into my little co-op apartment, the one I've held onto with my fingernails ever since I took up residence in Deutschland.  Dear Reader, should you find yourself to be of a legal turn of mind and also friendly to the concerns of responsible co-op owners who want responsible caretakers in their beloved small one-bedrooms, the ones to which they return with joy whenever possible, caretakers who are also shareholders themselves and grew up in the building, well then this is your chance to advise me.  I'm up the proverbial creek without the fabled paddle, and I want to save that apartment for my kids.