It was Christmas Eve, and I started feeling queasy.

Was it the gingerbread-flavored yogurt I had tried? Riding out the twists of the rain-drenched road? Or had I simply eaten too much homemade pot roast?

Within an hour, I was sick. So sick that I kept running to the bathroom all night, fluids coming out both ends.

My husband, with characteristic physician demeanor, remained unperturbed.

Finally I asked, "Did you hear me throwing up??"

"Oh, yes," he answered distractedly, then, "Are you sure you can't make it to the family Christmas lunch tomorrow?"

But by morning, after I had spent a feverish night with the vomiting and diarrhea compounded by waking up from the kids' crying and to nurse the baby, my husband was ready to take me to the ER.

"You can't even keep water down," he said concernedly.

"Merry Christmas," I croaked.

We called the hospital. The nurse recommended some medications, which upon hanging up I realized wouldn't work because I was breastfeeding. However, I finally was able to sip some apple juice, so at my urging, my husband reluctantly took the kids by himself to the family Christmas party. After all, we had traveled 2,400 miles to go there, and are only able to attend the get-together every few years.

It would be one of the rare times for our children to spend time with my relatives. In fact, it would be the first time most would meet our newborn. Plus, did I mention that we had gotten snowed out earlier and were completely unable to see the other side of the family? So I slept, and they went.

Back from the party, my husband and the keiki seemed fine. Just as I was thinking that it was better that I had fallen ill rather than the kids, our toddler started getting sick. At first we thought that she had consumed too many french fries. However, in the wee hours of the morning after she had thrown up repeatedly, we knew that despite preventive measures like hand washing, the insidious gastroenteritis had spread.

A few hours later, my husband fell victim to the same bug. We spent the rest of the vacation practically inert, though unable to ever really rest due to the kids' uncoordinated sleep schedules and baby's nursing needs.

My husband, already Mr. Skinny, lost five pounds. I did not eat for three days, after which I must say that the overpriced bowl of hotel soup seemed like the best thing I had ever tasted.

The poor toddler continued to be sick even on our flight home, requiring a full change of clothes and a thorough cleaning of the car seat shortly after takeoff. The only bright spot was our newborn. He would have been the most vulnerable, but in answer to our prayers, he amazingly caught only a runny nose.

On the whole, this was a decidedly awful way to spend the holidays. But come to think of it, the first Noel was characterized as much by hardship as by festivity. And I was thankful that, despite our compromised state, my family and I were together through it all.

Plus, at the very least, in comparison to our holiday sufferings, the new year can truly only get better.

Monica Quock Chan is a freelance writer who lives in Honolulu with her husband and children.