There’s pressure behind my eyes. Heavy, pulsing on either side of my eyebrows. This sickness hit me from behind—midnight bedtime: healthy. One hour later: the back of my throat turned into two punching bags lined with razor blades.
I had just been thinking, right before I landed in sicky-land, that I hadn’t been sick in a while. I ran with it, got cocky. “Must be all that gut bacteria from the sourdough I’ve been making,” I told myself. And then, in my moment of victory—celebrated too soon—I hit a pothole and landed smack on my face. With snot running down it.
The projectile rockets coming out of my nose are so epic, I’m reminding myself of those green mean blobs barreling down the hotel hallways in Ghostbusters. You know, the ones that smear their goo everywhere? Sneezes keep overtaking me, and I’ve lost count. Was that a new world record of five?
Thinking about what to type, typing it, and then editing it is pulsing the top edge of my forehead in little lightning jolts. Eyes-closed breaks, rubbing my eyeballs back into my skull, squeezing my temples—it’s all mild pain relief. So would an ibuprofen, but that involves standing up, walking, opening the cabinet, unscrewing the bottle, finding the right amount, popping them in, then sticking my mouth under the bathroom faucet to swallow them. And when I’m sick, I’m lazy.
I told Dave that being sick makes me miss my depressed era. The days I’d stay in bed and stay in bed. I’d jack up the baseboard heater, keep the room-dimming curtain closed, and make mini treks out to cook what I imagine was Top Ramen, then scurry back to my room to eat it. I loved those days. I felt like doing nothing, so I did nothing. Today’s “nothing” is very minimal and layered with guilt, and a fitness trainer’s “No excuses” motto booming somewhere in the back of my skull.
Hey, look at that—by sitting here long enough, Dave came in and did all those ibuprofen steps for me. The hardest part was that he placed them in my hand like little baby angels in God’s hand, and I was balancing on my elbow in an awkward position, trying not to fall over while still getting them into my mouth. We both pre-giggled at my predicament, but once I landed them where they needed to go, without doing a full face-plant, I officially began my journey toward headache-less existence.
But not yet.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 