On Saturday, I texted my friend L and said, “This illness has moved incredibly quickly from ‘maybe I’m sick,’ to ‘Death is inevitable and I can only hope it comes quickly.'”
Yesterday, R called. I said, “Hello,” and he said, “Oh, you don’t sound good.” I said, “Yeah, I thought about calling you earlier, but all I really have to say is ‘whine, whine, whine.’ And now I’m done. How are you?”
So yeah. Whine, whine, whine. Being sick in a van sucks and I would truly like… oh, a real bed, a hot bath, some good drugs — Dayquil would be nice — and another box or two of tissues. And some chicken soup. And Zelda would very much like someone to take her for a walk.
It is oddly peaceful, though. In a house, when I’m sick, I’m always in search of something to help me feel better. The hot bath or a more comfortable pillow, a distraction or a drink. I turn on the television, turn it off again. Pick up a book, put it down again. Walk to the kitchen, go back to the bedroom. Try out the couch for a while, then move to the recliner. It’s a fretful search for comfort. In the van, there’s nothing I can do, except stare out the window and wait to feel better.
So that’s what I’m doing. Waiting to feel better. Fingers crossed that it’s sooner rather than later.