Friday, November 18, 2011

The World Does Not Stop When You're Sick

My earliest recollection of being sick includes my mom. She had something, I don't remember what. She gave it to me. I think mine morphed into tonsillitis. I have dim memories of the two of us lying in bed and dad bringing us tuna fish sandwiches because that's all she felt like eating. Neither my dad nor my brother got whatever we had. I remember a vaporizer and lots of Vick's Vapor Rub.

This past week has been a week defined by a cold. Vick's Vapor Rub is still a mainstay in my medicine chest, its soothing vapors helping me sleep at night. The Zicam test failed. By Monday, I was about as sick as I would be through this episode. At least for me, Zicam doesn't work. I still have half a bottle of cherry-flavored lozenges so, if I feel another cold coming on, I'll use them up, but it's not something I'll go out of my way to buy again.

My house is a wreck. I'm not the cleanest of people nor the most organized. I live by the adage, "Clean enough to be healthy. Dirty enough to be happy." But my inability to even pick up after myself over the weekend now has me irritated. The kitchen managed to get cleaned on Sunday, in between naps. I managed to do a couple loads of wash mainly because I was out of pants. Otherwise, and if you've ever been sick, you know this feeling, my body told me to sleep.

I've spent a lot of time sleeping in the recliner. I can sleep there for about 2-3 hours and then I have to go to bed. When your head is completely stuffed up and you're not breathing through your nose, sleeping somewhat upright, which the recliner affords, does net you some good hours of non-coughing sleep. Perhaps I could sleep there longer but my knees start to complain and I have to go lie down flat.

I've not answered the phone. I've not answered the mail. I've not really done anything and this morning, getting ready for work, it bothered me. There is the pile of dirty clothes in the bathroom. There is the stack of dirty dishes on the counter. There is the pile of mail, brought in but not sorted, on the living room table. Pilchard is 'yelling' at me because the litter boxes aren't clean. Sunday's clean dishes still sit in the dish rack. I haven't put them away. I tell myself it doesn't really matter. What matters is getting better and my body told me by making me fall asleep, that I needed to care for it rather than the stuff that goes with living.

I am better today. My doctor believes I have turned the corner on this and will be whole by Thanksgiving. I look around the house and see all this stuff I want to/need to do. I also realize that jumping in with both feet will leave me exhausted and prone to catching something else. So, in my head, as I was drifting off to sleep last night, I have divided up the tasks. "Saturday morning, you'll do this first. When that is done, rest. Then do this. Rest." It does feel, however, a bit like Alice in Wonderland. "I give myself good advice, but I very seldom take it." Time to listen to that inner voice.

Beverage:  Earl Grey tea


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