If Only There Was a Market for Snot
Hack! Hack! Sniff! Hack! Bloooow! (right through tissue- grab paper towel-ack!- nose sore)
I HATE being sick — absolutely hate it.
I stood at my kitchen sink yesterday, washing dishes, looking at the tree that’s starting to bud leaves, and thinking, “I got so much…” HACK! “...stuff to do…” HACK! “…and I feel like going back to bed.” Which I eventually did.
I had a list: rake the leaves around the edge of the house, straighten out shepherd’s hooks and bird feeders, put the cauldron back where it belongs (yep, we have several), plant flowers in the pots on the front porch… Staring at Spring finally coming to northeastern Pennsylvania (we had snow last week) had spurred my brain to make a list but brain did not inform sinuses and lungs and nose.
I’d been coughing for two weeks — allergies or as my doctor said, “Everyone’s doing it.” I did not want to be one of the crowd. I’ve known my doctor for more than 20 years, personal and professional. He’s the one I went to when I had a severe case of poison ivy (from sitting on straw bales at a Gettysburg reenactment) and said, pointing to my legs, “Fix this!”
This time, after checking that my lungs were clear, he ordered the usual, over the counter stuff, which did nothing for another week. I called the office and told Laurie, one of the nurses, “I think it’s time for an antibiotic.” They know me. There was the time I had bronchitis and called: “Get me a prescription for Prednisone or I’m taking the dog’s.” They trust me. I am or was a nurse, a damn good one. But that story is long and for another time.
I hate being sick. But when I was a kid, I loved being sick.
I loved staying home from school. I was bullied because of my weight. And I wanted to stay home because my little sister was able to stay home. I wanted to watch all the game shows and soap operas. I wanted to listen to the morning radio shows, like the Breakfast Club (the original). “Good Morning, Breakfast Clubbers. Good Morning to you. We wake up bright and early just to Howdy-do you.” If you sang along, you’re as old as I am…or older.
The staying home being sick thing was so bad my father made me walk up the main street of the town where we lived to the school as he used a switch on my legs. Hey, this was the 1950s. Little girls wore skirts and corporal punishment on a kid was not a crime.
Eventually I got better at going to school. I still didn’t love it but I went.
But when I started working as a nurse on a general duty floor, I called off as often as I could. And that’s a story for another time.
I finally got my act together and became a model employee, only calling off when I felt as if I was knock-knock-knocking on Death’s black door. I remember having the Norovirus plague on Christmas Eve…well, as I’ve been saying, a story for another time.
Through a C-section, cancer surgery (twice), tetany (once — don’t get THAT!), and other various issues, I’ve learned (the hardest way) that being sick is craptastic.
And it’s double-craptastic if you’re female. Stuff just piles up until you’re feeling better. My daughter does help out but there are things I see, as I sit in a huddle with my box of tissues, stuff I need to do. And that includes finishing a post for Medium.
But the leaves are where the wind blew them, the cauldron sits in the middle of the yard, the bird feeders can wait…after all it IS Spring and the little stinkers can find their own food.
I’ll just sit here on the sofa and hack and use my tissues and read Comey’s book. Chicken soup for a sick liberal.
