Monday, September 27, 2004

Stuffy, Sneezing, Achy and Longing For a Smith & Wesson

Like I said, I hate being sick. Perhaps that is why I am still sick. The gods of sickness could sense my distaste for their gifted malady and have decided to extend my misery. So nice of them.

Friday after work I picked up Bubba, drove straight home and fell into bed. Except for one crawled trip to the facilities, I didn’t move the entire night. Poor Bubba. I couldn’t be bothered to get up to feed the dear, so she rustled herself up a nice dinner of carrots and yogurt. I can’t tell you how much I love that she can open the refrigerator on her own now. That is truly a blessing for the ill.

As the poor, neglected child (she will be three in November) wandered around the house, mostly playing Legos and talking to her dolls, I lay in bed dying. Well, not literally dying, just tossing and turning in miserable miserableness. I had piles of tissue surrounding me on the bed all of which were soaked to the core with the nastiness that spewed from my nasal regions. My head throbbed, and the pressure was so great that the entire row of my top teeth ached like they haven’t ached since I was a teenager in braces. So I wasn’t dying, but I sure wanted to die. I kept imagining ways to put myself out of my misery. My personal favorite was the chainsaw I would have used to cut away my teeth, thus removing the most aggravating of my pains. I couldn’t watch television because my eyes hurt, which also precluded reading; I couldn’t listen to music because of my headache, so I just lay there for hours in my state of wretchedness.

If I had been smart, I would have found a mallet to knock myself out with, or at least found a pill to do the trick from my basket o’ medicine, but all I could think of was the misery and the violent ways I could treat myself rather than the rational FDA-approved solution.

I was supposed to be at my mother’s house helping her unload the truck into her new apartment. Before I left work I called her to tell her that it was a “no can do,” so when she called me, why would I expect anything other than sympathy from her phone call? No, no. Sometimes I require much too too much from my mother dearest. When I answered the phone it was to a barrage of angry words. Apparently my sister had abandoned her for a camping trip to the Gorge in George, WA to see Jack Johnson in concert (sorry, I get such a kick out of the fact that there is a place on this planet name George, Washington), Big took off for a b-day dinner with Coco and her sister, and I called in sick. Most upsetting to me was that she didn’t even believe I was sick. She thought I had a date or something. I said, "stop yelling at me, stop yelling at me, stop yelling at me," when she didn’t, I hung up sobbing with frustration. Poor Bubba came in and asked who had been yelling at me. I couldn’t tell her it was her beloved Grandma, but I did let her hug and comfort me. I always feel so guilty taking comfort from a two year-old, but I think that as sick and upset as I was, it’ll be okay, just that once.

X came in, as I was still wiping the tears, to save the day as usual. I had called him on my way home to beg him to come over when he was off work to put Bubba to bed, because I knew I would not have the strength, and here he was. He listened to me sob over my mom’s mistreatment of me, and handed me the quarter-pounder meal he brought as a surprise. I hadn’t eaten since lunch, and the McDonald’s sounded good in theory, but my stomach didn’t seem to agree, and the fries I did attempt to eat were barely swallowed. Apparently, and I never noticed this before, when you swallow you puff out a bit of air at the end. If your nose is completely stopped up, swallowing with food is a completely miserable experience to pile on top of the fact that there ain’t no air passing through your nose. I couldn’t even taste the fries in the first place. They were chilled and felt like wet, tasteless mush in my mouth. After a few sips of Diet Coke, I abandoned the idea of sustenance, accepted the Tylenol Sinus PM X rustled up for me, and heard a loud tssssssss coming from my forehead when X lay a cool, damp cloth there. There was probably some steam as well, uh huh. See, I was dying. I had a fever, so there.

But then I started to cry again. I was so upset that I had to rely on my ex-husband to come take care of me. I felt horrible about it, and then of course I got upset again about my mother and began ranting about that. X calmed me down, reminding me that we are friends and he would do this for me even if we had never been married, and that my mother wasn’t upset with me, just freaked out about the move and upset about the other kids. Ten minutes later, I was asleep.

The next morning, I dragged myself out of bed and to my mother’s house to do what I could in my deathlike state. She apologized for yelling at me, and only let me work for a few minutes before sending me on my way for the weekend. She didn’t want to get sick, and apparently X called her upon leaving my place to say that I really was sick and she wasn't very nice to treat me so horribly in my nearly putrid state.

So I spent the rest of the weekend sniffing and hacking and “ugh”ing a lot. I also got in trouble with my ex-sister-in-law, but that is a story for another blog entirely.

And today I am sniffing and hacking and “ugh”ing a lot, but I am not going to bed after work. I get to look at apartments.

As many times as I have moved in my life, and I do mean many (I am now in my 36th abode – give or take a few), I still look forward to getting settled into a new place and getting to know a different neighborhood. My current place of residence is the first one that I will have lived in for a full year in a looooooooong time. I thought that as a grown-up I would stick my roots and never leave once I had a say, but I think that restless quality was passed down to me from my father. Once Bubba starts school, I think I will be able to quash that feeling. There was nothing worse when I was a child than going home at the start of Christmas Break and finding out that we were moving yet again and would be gone before the start back of school, so no goodbyes – again. No finishing the school year in one school - again. No going back for my prized Trapper Keeper - again.

But this was supposed to be about my sick weekend.
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