I might be dying. Goodbye, cruel world; it’s been real.
OK, maybe I exaggerate. But seriously, whatever’s been making its way through immune systems around the Lowcountry managed to knock me on my rear. At least for a few days.
But thanks to the wonders of a weekend on the couch and streaming episodes of “Murder, She Wrote” on Netflix — and a heavy, heavy dose of antibiotics and asthma meds — I think I’ve got this sinus infection/respiratory bug/the Black Death on the run.
So I’m still breathing out of my mouth, can only hear out of one ear and still can’t taste anything because I’m so congested. It’s a big improvement over just a few days ago, when I was bemoaning my mortality and begging Seth to fetch me tissues and tea and to wrap my blanket around me a little tighter. I’ll be the first to admit I’m not exactly a great patient, but frankly, I think he could have fluffed my pillow a little more and really, is it too much to ask for a bell to ring so I don’t have to get off my sickbed to make my own soup? I think not.
Of course, when I’m sick I can be a little scary, too. Especially when I’m hopped up on asthma drugs such as prednisone, a corticosteroid used to reduce inflammation — in my case, in my respiratory system (I’ve been sick for so long I’m starting to talk like a doctor. Someone let the FDA know I’ve discovered a new side effect!). While I’m breathing like a champ after just a dose or two, I need sugar and I need it NOW. I feel like Paula Deen at an all-you-can-eat Krispy Kreme buffet (Unless, of course, that’s a real thing that’s happening somewhere. In which case, Paula, I’ll fight you for that chocolate glazed).
But seriously: Prednisone makes me want to EAT ALL THE FOOD. Every last crumb. Especially if it’s sugary, sweet or all-out not good for me. And, OK, it makes me just a teensy bit irritable. The other night, as I was frantically digging through our pantry looking for cookies or chocolate or preferably both, I might have roid-raged out a little bit and thrown a can of peas at Seth’s head when I came up empty. We just ordered all the Girl Scout cookies in South Carolina (and possibly Georgia). Why aren’t they in my belly yet?!?
And a few years ago when I had the flu, Seth found me in the kitchen at 3 a.m. eating an entire bag of Oreo cookies. In my sleep. When I discovered the empty Oreo bag in the morning, I burst into tears and hysterically accused Seth of cheating on the dinner I’d cooked for him with cookies. Why wasn’t my chicken good enough for him? Why didn’t he love me? Why couldn’t I compete with the creamy center of a sandwich cookie? By the time he showed me the crumbs covering my pajamas and convinced me that I’d been the midnight cookie cheater, I was so worked up I was nearly hyperventilating.
All of this over cookies. I make no sense.
This time, I did better. Well, aside from that whole pea-throwing thing. This time, I got by with mugs of tea so sweet even the strongest of old British ladies couldn’t have stood it (did I mention I also might have streamed nine hours of “Downton Abbey” on Netflix, too?). And I only screamed at Seth once, when he wouldn’t carry me from the couch upstairs to the bedroom because I obviously was too sick to walk that far on my own. Man up, Seth. Seriously. If you’d just lifted with your knees, it would have been fine. Don’t be such a baby.
Yup, I must be on the mend. But could someone please pass me the tissues? I promise I won’t honk my nose in your direction — especially if you also pass the cookies.