This is not an attempt to garner sympathy from all over the world. Ok maybe a little bit. The Guy With Pinkeye is much better, to our profound relief. It means his disease is bacterial, instead of viral. Nothing can be done for viral…and he can’t afford to miss 10 days of work and school. So there’s that, good news! Also, thanks to living in a place where I don’t have to walk 4 miles for water and rely on someone to toss knucklebones to chase away the demons that are making me sick, there’s effective remedies that alleviate symptoms. No cure…it’s The Flu and I was too late for Tamiflu…but there’s plenty of Dayquil/Nyquil/Tylenol/And Other Assorted Pills and Potions that make it possible to function, albeit on a rudimentary level.
This is awesome. I feel like one of those bloggers who detail every single hiccup and twinge, certain of the world’s fascination with my health and well being! Self Importance! Yay!
I read a thing about a text message where a mother sent a text to her teenage child that said “You made the team? WTF!!” and the kid replied “Mom. Do you know what WTF means?” and Mom replied “Of course I do! It means Well That’s Fantastic!” That could be my mom.
Also welcome to the scattered thoughts produced by a gentle overlapping of Nyquil and Dayquil.
The biggest problem I have with being sick is not the “feeling like crud part”, but the “not doing my job” part. The floors look awful, and I do not like asking anyone else to do them because half-done floors are more bothersome than not-done-at-all floors. The bathrooms. Well. That’s why God invented doors. That close. And bleach. I don’t like letting someone else cook, or fold laundry, or any of those myriad tasks that fall firmly into the realm of “My responsibilities.” Himself swears up and down that he doesn’t mind doing stuff, that he understands I don’t feel well and this stuff needs to be done, etc. But he also goes to work every morning and comes home tired every evening so that, among other things, I can have the privilege of being a housewife, and to ask him to do my job on top of his, is onerous indeed. I don’t know if anyone can understand how much I hate that. But I also know how truly crappy I am feeling right now and mopping the floors or scrubbing a tub is…really…exhausting and pretty much out of the question entirely until I can actually breathe normally again. I guess we will all pretend to live in a cabin with a dirt floor. And watch an occasional episode of Hoarders so we can see that it can always be much, much worse.