I’m the worst patient ever. From the first niggle or tickle in my throat, I start to complain. Complain that I don’t have time to be sick. Complain that I’m sick and tired. Complain that I’m waaaay too busy and important for such things. It turns out, the flu (yup; I have the actual flu) doesn’t care about such things.
The flu thinks I’m a jerk.
To be honest the feeling is mutual.
Last night I was in bed at some ridiculous hour, earlier than I’ve been to bed ever in the past few years. I woke every few hours thanks to fevers and cold shivers. I managed to complain a lot. I’m proud of the level of complaining I managed. It takes a certain fortitude to complain when you’re unwell, I think. A certain level of resilience. HA!
I’ve been blessed with good health my whole life. I hope you know how grateful I am for that, despite the complaining. I just don’t do sick very well. Do you think it’s the sort of thing you can take for granted sometimes? That health will always be there and that when you get sick you’ll get over it? I think that’s what it is.
Well, I assume that’s what it is. I’m taking some pain killers and Tamiflu, and I’ve drunk my body weight in orange juice. I’m resting because they told me too and writing this, so I don’t go nuts. What can I say, I’m a blogger, an oversharer, I’m a fisher of well wishes and get well soons. I’m the worst patient ever.
Or so Mr Suger says, as he Glen20’ed me.