No soothsayer came to warn me, no brightly coloured oracle perched upon my windowsill two weeks ago to apprise me of my fate. There was no alteration in the skies floating far above my cottage roof, no ominous clouds to obscure my perpetually rose-tinted view. I suppose it is doubtful I would have properly believed such a warning had I heard it clear. If I had been told I would soon be ill and confined to my bed for two weeks, I would have pictured myself propped up comfortably on crisp linen sheets, clad in soft cotton pajamas, a stack of captivating new books at my elbow and a consistently hot pot of Darjeeling beside me at all times. There might have even been chocolate involved. I would have imagined myself talking on the phone to friends far and near, watching old movies, dozing occasionally and perhaps coughing delicately into a daisy embroidered hankie every now and then.
How could I have possibly imagined the repellent malady that crashed through my door and attached itself to that vision of ladylike illness like a iniquitous barnacle, refusing to budge over the whole of two weeks. For what began as a irritating summer cold turned into acute bronchitis, an infirmity I have never had before and do not wish to ever have again.
On the ninth day, I finally got myself to the doctor and received several big red pills along with come oddly coloured cough medicine, a concoction that brought me as close to hard drugs as I shall ever come in my entire life, I am sure, but one that does work. And finally, just today, I feel more like myself.
I have to thank you all so much for your get well wishes and fabulous tips! I have written them all down to save! Mentholatum on the bottoms of the feet?? Who knew? Actually, the suggestion from Angus was my favourite and I can assume it failed only because I used Talisker instead of Macallan. At any rate, as I said, today I feel much better and, while I do not pretend this experience was anything other than unpleasant, there were a few notes of interest I discovered along the way....
1. Edward Loves Honeydew Melon.
As he spent most of every day and night in bed alongside me, and as honeydew melon is one thing that feels so good to someone with a sore throat, naturally Edward got to try some.
He actually grinned.
So from then on, it was... “one for me, one for you”.
2. Technicolour Dreams
I’ve always known I dreamt in colour, but this week was unbelievable.
Bright, almost neon, dreams. And so intricately detailed.
Could it be that cough syrup, do you think?
3. A Migraine Just Makes Everything Worse
4. Summer Not Such A Bad Time
It is common wisdom that summer is the absolute worst season to have a cold. But honestly, I think that’s only true if you have to get outside. If you have the luxury of staying indoors in the air-conditioning, you can be completely comfortable and besides, who wants to be out in this sulky heat anyway?
If I were missing a gorgeous Autumn day, or a bright pink Spring morning, or a bracing Winter afternoon, then I’d really be upset.
5. Things Go On Just Fine
Even though I couldn’t possible ask for a better nurse than The Songwriter, for the first few days I was sick, I still attempted to direct things in my normal fashion.... “This needs to be done by then, They need to be called then”.... “Don’t forget this!... Oh remember this!”. After a couple of days though, I began to just not care as much. Truth is, The Songwriter is more than capable of handling whatever comes his way.
So from my spot curled up in bed, I could hear the jingle of dog leads and car keys and I knew life was continuing on just as it should. Bills got paid, dinners got cooked. The garden got watered, birthday cards got sent.
It’s really quite a relief to occasionally realize you are not so completely indispensible.
6. Media Vacuum
Watery eyes and a foggy brain made reading less than enjoyable whilst I was sick, and I did hate that.
But being media illiterate for a couple of weeks actually felt rather nice.
I mean, I missed the entire Anthony Weiner debacle.
Almost, almost.... worth getting sick for.
Like most girls who read Little Women, I always identified with Jo. Fiercely intelligent, feisty, independent - she was the March sister we all wanted to be. But after these past two weeks, I have found much more for sympathy for Beth. Languishing in her upstairs bedroom, weak as a kitten, whilst everyone else bounced all around her. Poor dear, it’s not all that much fun. Pitiful Camille, tragic Mimi, little Nell. For two dreadful weeks of bronchitis... these were my people!
But now I am tired of the consumptive Keats and Bronte.
I can feel the stirrings of new energy bubbling up between my bare toes like ocean foam.
I want to go see some new movies!
I want to catch up on my favourite blogs!
I want to cook! I want to eat!
I want to buy a new lipstick!
And I must get Edward some more honeydew melon!
I am finally out of bed!!