I’m sitting here writing next to my best friend of late. My best friend being a box of Kleenex. My third box, to be exact. Nearly 195 supposedly ultra soft facial tissues have been my constant companion since I contracted Covid 2 1/2 weeks ago.
I guess I’m officially an old lady now since a sure sign is when one stuffs a Kleenex up a sleeve or keeps it within reach in the car. I always wondered why that was. Do old ladies get runny noses more often than young ones? Perhaps. But in my defense, I plan to go back to being Kleenex-free once this awful illness decides to leave my body.
I’m writing this Friday at 6:15 p.m. and I’ll have you know it’s pretty much the first time I’ve sat up all day. Yes, friends, I’m sick. A sicko. Under the weather. A bit peaked. In other words, I don’t feel well. I’ll pause here to give you time to feel sorry for me before I continue. Done feeling sorry? Then let’s continue.
The reason this is a big deal is because I hardly ever get sick. Seriously. Mind over matter. I get injured frequently, but not sick. When I feel I’m not up to par in the energy department, I tell myself: I feel good, I feel great. I down a packet of Emergen-C, get to bed before midnight and the next morning, bingo-bango. I’m me again.
The last time I was this sick was on a trip to Spain in 2013. Just like now, I lost my voice, acquired bronchitis, and was knocked hard on my butt. I don’t mind the coughing all night, having to sleep upright, nor the disgusting stuff one coughs up with bronchitis. But losing my voice? That’s torture for me. Can’t speak for my friends (or to them!) but my guess is they’re enjoying the silence. Sadly for them, I’ve become quicker at texting.
Remember Chatty Cathy dolls? Pull the cord and she talks. I guess you could say I’m a larger version of her. But now my cord is jammed. Curse you bronchitis! So today I stayed prone just about all day. I know I’m sick when I’m not hungry, but I forced myself to eat a pear this afternoon at 2:30, then I napped.