I should like to recount my week in the use of tissues. Not actual Kleenex-style tissues (those are too pricey for this snozz), but rather in the form of two squares of two-ply toilet paper. I've successfully whittled down nearly an entire roll, and not all uses have been directed toward my new companion. Others have shared the duty--the leftover Subway napkin, the roll already hung in the bathroom, a napkin or two, and even the corner of a paper towel--but for the most part it has been the single roll and me.
I'm going on my seventh day of being sick, and haven't worked a lick all week. Until today. I didn't want to work today. I don't actually think I'm well enough to work today. I still had a lingering fever and nausea yesterday, but my boss is leaving town and my co-worker doesn't know how to operate the heavy (albeit light in the scheme of things, since it's only a Bobcat) machinery, so that leaves yours truly.
The honestly sad predictor is that yesterday I decided I should be feeling well by now (since, you know, you can just decide those things--like which cereal to eat, whether or not to shave, and how far over the speed limit you will justify driving) so I opted to help Jamie run some errands for Mama. Those errands included delivering four pans stacked with bread and at least six pans of cinnamon rolls to Grandma's house (don't worry, they were covered and I didn't breathe on them!). A fair load, but nothing unmanageable. Except for me it was. I was completely starved of oxygen. It took me nearly ten minutes to recover, and I only made two trips!
I felt as though I was sucking air through a straw clogged by milkshake, I couldn't get enough fast enough. Over cinnamon rolls and bread! It was then I hit a very low point and realised I was still not well. In fact, after we returned home I slept for four hours out of pure exhaustion. So you can begin to understand why the prospect of getting dressed actually making myself presentable, and going to work for a six hour shift is less than appealing. So much less than appealing that I almost feel degraded to tears.
Sadness and self-wallowing aside, there is a funny anecdote to be had from this week's tragedy.
I fell ill Sunday afternoon. By Tuesday night I was in the full in the clutches of what I am self-diagnosing as H1N1. I heard a soft knock at my door shortly before retiring to bed. Daddy opened the door. At first I entertained fanciful notions of him checking on me because he knew I was not well. That is, until he spoke.
"Are you taking anything for that cough?"
"Do you have a cough drop in right now?"
"Well get something because your coughing every 90 seconds and I'm trying to sleep!"
Right, Dad. Sorry my potentially (though very improbable) fatal illness is an inconvenience for you. Wait, wait it gets better. So yesterday, still sick when again I hear a tapping on my door in the early afternoon. Again Daddy is at my door. You'd think by now I'd know what to expect, but I thought he'd only just come home. Alas, I was incorrect in presuming he was coming out of concern for me.
"Aren't you tired of coughing yet?"
"Yes actually, I am."
"Are you taking anything for it?"
"Prescription strength Sudafed and Equate's Severe Cold capsules."
"Are you taking enough?"
"I'm taking the prescribed dosage."
"Does Mom need to stop and get some anti-cough and sinus stuff for you?"
"That's what I'm taking."
"Well it doesn't seem to be working."
"Yes, I realise that, which is why I don't think more will help."
He closed the door at this point. And I coughed.
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