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It seems my white blood cells have been caught with their proverbial pants pooled around their chubby little ankles. A malevolent invader has slunk past my defenses and managed to reduce me to a sniffling, feverish, exhausted mute vainly attempting to choke down a blinding inferno. I have consumed gallons of tea, hives of honey, and tureens of chicken noodle soup. My children are becoming proficient in interpreting my hastily thrown together version of throat-on-fire-can’t-talk sign language and my husband is finishing my sentences before I can put pen to paper.
I could view this turn of events as an opportunity to marvel at how self-sufficient my family has become during this invasion which has left me unable to scrounge up the energy to open a box of crackers. Or I could believe it to be a sign that I’ve been pushing too hard, doing too much too quickly and I should slow down and take things as they come.
Either way, being sick sucks and I’m probably going to take Option 3: whine and bitterly complain until I feel better. I’ll be drugged up on acetaminophen, antihistamines and decongestants and sucking on Halls in a steaming bubble bath if you need me. And if you’re brave enough to enter my personal virus-induced hell, please bring chocolate. I’m sick, I deserve it.