Chicken Soup & Solitude

After a bout of illness - in this case a severe cold that lasted for several days and caused me numerous times to wish for oblivion - it's necessary to rejoin the world.

All my instincts told me to give it a pass. The sun was shining brightly outside and I wanted nothing more than to open the windows and let it bring fresh air and warmth to a stuffy and stale sickroom, cluttered with dirty dishes, forlorn kleenex and empty aspirin bottles. I didn't want to move from the couch, didn't want to change kitty litter boxes or do laundry. I was used up and worn out with fuzzy teeth and a leftover headache from coughing and body aches that might return with enough effort. I needed air freshener and a nap although I'd been horizontal for the better part of four days. My hopes for the future seemed to rest with chicken soup and solitude and it was with despair and bitterness that I realized I was out of the former and had no chance for the latter, not with a houseful of restless and confined animals. This is the downside of living alone.

I carefully swallowed a handful of aspirin and drank some leftover juice, testing the waters by sitting upright and waiting to see if the room would begin to spin. The small brown dog gave me a look filled with compassion and hope while the cats circled like unfed vultures and the black dog began to bark and nose her water dish across the kitchen floor. None of it seemed worthy of the effort it was going to take to put things back in order. I was sure a trip to the grocery store would be fatal - indeed, a trip to the kitchen sink seemed beyond my reach - and the pressure in my chest was a reminder that the vicious cough could return at any moment. Still, the darkened house was unbearable, the sick room feel to it was too oppressing to tolerate and I needed fresh clothes, fresh water, fresh thoughts. It was time to get well.

I would begin with a hot shower, I thought, wash my hair until it hurt, and scrub my teeth, find clean bluejeans and a tshirt and slowly begin to pick up the pieces. One litter box at a time, one small area at a time, I would make my way back to the land of the living, stopping to rest as needed, not pushing too hard, not tempting fate or the cold gods who had so unfeelingly laid waste to my organized and usually healthy life. Enough, I thought and then said aloud for emphasis and to convince myself, was enough. The small brown dog cocked her head at me, quivering all over with the possibility of a trip outside and a cookie, and I got to my feet.

No matter how trivial the illness or how insignificant the journey, no matter how much you would rather not go or how little or large the reward, the first step is always the hardest to take.