Just another Friday night rages on. The littles are tucked into bed in their fleece jammies. I have a cup of tea and a stack of mint oreos; watching 200 pound tumors being removed on Discovery Health and wetting my pants every 45 seconds.
Right. I’ve been coughing for a good week now. What was a good boogery cough has turned into a nasty bout of bronchitis and a touch of pneumonia. Two doctor trips, an antibiotic, a cough suppressant, a steroid and an inhaler later…not to mention multiple underwear changes and the contemplation of squeezing into my daughter’s nighttime pullups…here I am.
I did, however, come to find out that my thyroid is normal and my cholesterol is better than normal. So there’s that.
Being sick sucks but it’s really insulting to pee just a little with every strained cough. This cough that bruises the inside of my ribcage, is nothing short of irritating. I liked it better when there were boogers involved. I don’t know what to think. If this were one of my kids I’d be hanging from the rafters by now. I am grateful that it isn’t one of them. My chest is rattley, I have no appetite and no energy.
And all I could think all day was “So this is what Stephen must have felt like.” The anxious feeling of trying to breathe and the cough that does nothing and the hope that the one extra medicine will, finally, do the trick. And then I’m back to reality and the screaming littles and the toys everywhere and I still can’t breathe all that well but now I’m really awake because of the steroid.
But at least it’s not one of the kids. Because I really couldn’t stand that. And not the irritation at having just one more thing to worry over but the fear that there’s something that everyone is missing. Even me. I can’t even go there. I can’t even think that. But still…the fear…is never really gone.
My parents left as soon as I got home from the doctor’s office yesterday afternoon. I was kind of hoping that they would stick around for another day so I could recover a little bit but no dice. As long as I’m not *actually* in the hospital, they have lives to get back to. All in all, it was a good visit suprisingly enough. My mom rooted through all my cupboards and systematically rearranged them. She also ditched all my leftovers and cleaned the shelves in the fridge. Dad organized the basement storage and fixed the doll highchair that Ella sat in a broke about a week ago. Both were pleasant and upbeat. I don’t have any complaints except for their hasty retreat. Figures.
There aren’t very many things worse than being sick and alone. Wanting a cup of tea but too tired to make one for yourself. Watching the trash truck pass by the house because you’re not strong enough to take the can to the curb. And I’m young, relatively. I, at least, have the littles for company even if the company involves pretending to eat play-doh soup. Imagine if I was elderly or very rural or foreign. How much would that suck?
Worse than this, I’m sure. It could always be worse.