On Friday evening, a wave of physical exhaustion swept over me. I assumed I was just extra tired and so I tucked into bed early. Saturday night, after spending much of the day at school for an Open House, I felt the same kind of exhaustion. Plus, I was really cold. Again, I thought nothing of it and went to bed. Sunday dawned and I felt a little tired. But T and I went grocery shopping anyway. By mid-day, I was once again exhausted. By 4, I’d put on my pajamas and taken to the sofa under a heap of blankets watching endless episodes of American Pickers. I went to bed at 7:30; JT came home and gave me a kiss on the cheek he was so worried.
Monday, I took my feverish self to school to help out with a day of community service. I felt like death on a cracker and nearly everyone who saw me asked, “are you okay?” I came home at midday and had a nap and finally admitted the truth: I have the flu.
Today I am home while Old Man Tree gets a complicated trimming from a veritable army of tree trimmers. I’m drinking endless cups of tea and contemplating the fact that moving from the sofa to the teapot feels like a Herculean task. It’s been years since I had the flu but let me assure you that it still sucks. I don’t get sick very often and I am the world’s worst patient, resentful of the fact that I am sick and generally convinced that I’m doomed. Dr. Google is especially helpful in this regard.