Sicky-Sucky

I woke up a few days ago with razor blades in my throat and a gallon of ooze in my head.  My ears are clogged, I’m choking, my head hurts and my nose is sore from blowing. If snot were useful for anything, I could be rich by selling it.  I’m an untapped well of snot resources!  My muscles ache.  I can’t sleep.  When I close my mouth I suffocate because I can’t breathe through my nose, but when I try to sleep with my mouth open, I nearly drown in the drool.  Which, considering how dry my mouth is from the cold medicine I’m taking, is hard to understand.  How is there any drool at all?  Ah, C’est la vie…or at least C’est la virus laden snot head problems.  Needless to say, I’m a bit irritable as well.  This is the reward I get for nursing Vance through his eight day bout with the flu?  Well, alrighty then, thanks! (Glares at my little germ carrier.)  (Feels guilty for glaring, gives germ carrier a hug to assuage guilt.)

As I mentioned, we homeschooled the boys for most of their educational career.  One of the bright spots in that choice became apparent when some time during the first couple of years at home, we saw on the news that the local public schools were closing due to illness.  “HA,” I thought. “We dodged that bullet!”  Oh, but pride goeth before the fall.  We realized how much we had babied our immune systems when we joined the community theater.  Without fail, every tech week the entire cast, and along with them, our entire family, would come down with an unexplained illness that mimicked a cold.  I know that the stress had lowered our immune defenses because inevitably the sickness came on during the hardest, scariest part of bringing a play to fruition.  And then, once the curtain fell on opening night and tech week was officially over, the illness was borne away.  It was as if a Fairy-Stage-Mother had sprinkled us all, cast and crew alike, with antibiotic dust, and miraculously we were healed!

Fast forward to Shayne and Vance’s teen years.  They began to ask about getting jobs.  It’s a rite of passage and so Dean and I agreed, packed their lunches and drove them to work. For Vance, it was a job in food prep, with no customer contact.  It’s a small world back there.  Not much for him to get into, right?  And restaurant employees are adults and therefore much less likely than, say, a group of six-year-olds, to lick each others elbows, wipe boogies on each other, or sneeze and cough near the food and other employees without covering their mouths and washing their hands, right?  Yeah, you would think.  Come to find out, not so much.  Lesson here:  Restaurant workers and first graders may have more in common than anyone really wants to ponder.

So I have Vance to thank for bringing me this ick.  He has since, mostly, recovered.  To be honest, my interest in this virus is waning quickly.  Unfortunately, it’s interest in me is not.  I move from bed to couch to bed to couch to bed, stopping in the kitchen occasionally, between moves, to grab a sherbet push-up to soothe my sore throat.  After dragging my pillow and blanket through the house all night, I finally give up trying to sleep  and decided to test the theory that coffee and ibuprofen might turn this frown upside down.  …NOPE…

These germs make me mean.  I’ve contemplated kicking Dean in the shin more than once over these past few days.  (In my defense, I watched a documentary on how the body changes as it fights off viral and bacterial invaders and it’s completely normal for me to want to kick my husband. Yay!)  He finds the most irritating things funny when I’m sick.  And he speaks in such a grating voice.  He’s just not very motherly at all!  I know that I shouldn’t chase away the only person who is brave enough to attempt to care for me during this difficult time.  I mean, now who’s gonna make me warm apple cider and bring me Benedryl in bed?  Not Dean.  Not after I told him where he could stick his list of my “to-dos”  for today.  Not after I told him that my momma would never have warmed apple cider using his method.  Not after I yelled at him that I was gonna die before he got that medicine to me if he kept up his snail’s pace.  Not after I cried, and I quote, “Why in the hell don’t you love me anymore?  It’s because of my nose isn’t it?  I can’t help it that it’s all puffy and swollen.  It’s clogged with snot and sore from being constantly wiped and you, Sir, are no Florence Nightingale, either!”  …But I digress. (Which is something he wishes I had done much sooner.  If the spinning of the bed is any indication, I believe he may have slipped a few extra Benedryl into my orange juice to quiet me down.  That’s rude.  I was enjoying my pity party.)  Hmph.

I’ve got pain in my head and pain in my throat, a pain in my butt and I would really love to rip this meat suit of irritation right off my bones and run around all willy-nilly and free!  ‘Cause carrying these germs around is a major drag.  As is the six gallons of Chicken Noodle Soup I’ve been force fed this week.  I don’t care if I see another chicken noodle as long as I live.  What in the world is a chicken noodle anyway?  Is it anatomically close to the chicken’s fingers?  Is it found between the chicken’s thighs? …Oops!  I’m getting of track.  The meds make me a bit flighty.  Sorry.

I don’t have any pictures to share today.  I’m sure you don’t want to see this hot mess of thermometers, heating pads, unbrushed hair and used tissues.  There is one more thing I’d like to share with you before I go.  An important Public Service Announcement:  Please do not lick your co-worker’s elbows.  And also carts at the grocery store.  Please don’t lick those either.  You know some six-year-old has wiped a boogie on that. This is how germs are spread!  If you must lick someone’s elbows, please lick your own elbows.  But only after they are properly washed with soap and warm water.  Make sure to dry them using the air dryer.  If you wipe them off with the brown paper towels then they (your elbows) will have a cardboard taste. Nobody wants to lick cardboard flavored elbows.  That’s just gross.  And now back to your regularly scheduled life.

…Where’d I put my tissues?…

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