A glance at the calendar by my desk reminds me I'm in the 7th week of shingles. I feel like a survivor. That's when the intestinal bug arrives and lays me low for three very long days and nights - first there are chills and then sweats - I can tell I'm running fever and sleep is impossible. I spend three miserable, wretched nights listening to a hard and steady rain and knowing I'd have to feel better to die. I can't get the house warm enough, I can't sleep and don't dare try to eat or drink, every room looks like a small cyclone has come through and I don't care. I begin to wonder how much more of what's left of my battered, old immune system can take.
On the fourth day when the weather finally clears - and warms considerably - I start to think I might live. Although my hands are shaking badly, my insides are trembling and I feel as fragile as spun glass, I leave my little sunroom nest and make a bowl of chicken soup, saltines, and room temperature ginger ale. The dogs, both of whom have been constant companions and my only source of comfort, trail after me protectively. They haven't left my side in three days and when I fill the bathtub and sink in, both sit quietly at attention beside the tub, watching and waiting patiently.
On the fifth day, I feel well enough to go back to work but my mid afternoon I'm regretting it. My head is pounding, I ache from head to toe and once again I'm freezing even though it's over 60 degrees. I tend the work dogs one last time and then come home to crawl shivering and shaking beneath several layers of blankets and listen to my teeth chatter. I resolve not to come out til spring.
Most of the wretchedness passes by the following morning but I still feel far more delicate than I'd like. A hot shower and a couple of aspirin help and I pull on as many layers as I can and reluctantly leave for work.
I hate being sick. Not just because it means being sick, but because it means being alone and in misery and feeling whiny and dreadfully sorry for myself. I dislike envying my friends who have husbands or partners or children to pick up some of the slack - it makes me feel petty - and I've never been able to reach out for help and inconvenience others - it makes me feel helpless and obligated - but there are times when I do look back and wonder exactly how awful it would've been to stay married.
Take a breath, I tell myself. Let's not get carried away,
On the fifth day, I feel well enough to go back to work but my mid afternoon I'm regretting it. My head is pounding, I ache from head to toe and once again I'm freezing even though it's over 60 degrees. I tend the work dogs one last time and then come home to crawl shivering and shaking beneath several layers of blankets and listen to my teeth chatter. I resolve not to come out til spring.
Most of the wretchedness passes by the following morning but I still feel far more delicate than I'd like. A hot shower and a couple of aspirin help and I pull on as many layers as I can and reluctantly leave for work.
I hate being sick. Not just because it means being sick, but because it means being alone and in misery and feeling whiny and dreadfully sorry for myself. I dislike envying my friends who have husbands or partners or children to pick up some of the slack - it makes me feel petty - and I've never been able to reach out for help and inconvenience others - it makes me feel helpless and obligated - but there are times when I do look back and wonder exactly how awful it would've been to stay married.
Take a breath, I tell myself. Let's not get carried away,
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