Encore: Because I Feel THAT Sorry for Myself

You know how when you were a kid and Mom used to let you stay home from school if you were feeling sick and for the most part, aside from the puking or sinus congestion, you enjoyed the day?

In our house a “sick bed” was made up on the couch (ours consisted of a pea green blanket tucked into the couch cushions and a pink and beige rose coloured quilt) and two or three pillows and the stuffed toy you slept with…in my case my “Raggy” or my “Booyon”.

Sometimes both.

And there was the conveniently located blue mop or “puke pail”.

My father would come in from the yard every hour to check my temperature and to fill up my juice glass. I’d lay back and read comic books or watch whatever was on “farm TV”. Life seemed good even with a fever of 102.

When you’re an adult, staying home from school isn’t quite as fun.

When I get sick I can usually muster up enough antibodies to recover after a day home and then get back to work.

But not this week.


This week I’ve had to wallow around in my misery for pretty much the entire week. What seemed a simple head cold turned into a chest cold (complete with hives) culminating in an intestinal flu.

And my sick-bed has been more of bane than a comfort.

I have no time for this viral nonsense. I’m finding my impatience more difficult to deal with than the phlegm. Being sick for more than a day makes me feel rather sorry for myself,

after all there is no one around to fill my juice glass.

This self-pity, compounded with an increasing feeling of guilt for having to lie in bed all day instead of cleaning or laundry or school work, makes for an experience that boarders on torturous.

Now don’t get me wrong, when I’m in the throes of putridity I don’t want anyone around to see how ugly it can be, but when I realize I haven’t seen another human being for pretty much a week I begin to feel somewhat isolated. And if you are borderline OCD this can be a bad thing

because now I have a lot of time and a limited amount of distraction to propel me towards believing I have all sorts of life threatening maladies.

Thank God for social networking sites where interaction can happen.  I can get sympathy from friends and family without the threat of contamination. Voices of reason, albeit digital, offer up “awws” and “hugs” and “don’t be silly it can’t be the plague.”

No, being sick when you’re an adult isn’t fun. When you’re a kid you feel kinda special being at home, the center of attention, front row seating for the television, being waited on hand and foot.

But as an adult you feel as though your front row seat is now for a culling a comin’.


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