When you’ve had a bad cold or the flu (of which I am never certain of the distinction), you feel frightfully mortal and a healthy serving of feeling sorry for one’s self more often than not surfaces.
I’ve just come through several days of fever, running nose and aching joints. I sound a bit like a commercial for some remedy at the local pharmacy. I was even fearful at one point that I had the dreaded man cold, but alas I fought off the germs and called for reinforcements.
I dialled my phone for Laurie and she came to my aid and I am incredibly grateful for her. I’d kept myself going, even though just barely, feeding the pony, cleaning the kitty litter, filling the bird feeders, lugging in firewood, keeping the kittens out of trouble, walking Gracie, but once Laurie appeared, the little bit of reserve I had, quickly extinguished, leaving me flat out on the couch.
Laurie did all the chores and the tedious errands that needed doing. She did it quietly, as Laurie tends to do, without fanfare or complaint, while never counting aloud the seconds until she will be set free.
Now I’m on the other side of the wretched virus that I previously boasted a resistance to, I am grateful for most everything. Please note: never ever brag about not having been sick for some time. Someone will be listening and will smite you.
I don’t seem to mind the drudgery of day to day chores and I’m grateful for my restored enthusiasm. Perhaps that’s the silver lining of some of these flu season bugs: to remind us of the joy of good health and the restoration of the glass half full from previously being half empty.
Though my eyes are still puffy and my body hasn’t quite adjusted its earnestness in producing fluids that flow from my nose, I have survived. I feel like Joan of Arc or some nobly brave creature who battled the common cold and prevailed. What’s next? Lion taming. Paddling over Niagara Falls in a dinghy. Climbing Everest.
I’m just grateful it wasn’t the man cold. Surely you can hear me exhale a huge sigh of relief.