I hate being sick.

Duh! you say.

No. Seriously. I really really hate being sick. Not ill. Not indisposed. Not “feeling not quite right”. But sick.

Coughing. Fever. Wheezing. You-come-closer-than-3-feet-you-will-definitely-catch-the-cooties sick.

So sick that today, my doctor told me to not touch MYSELF else I’d make myself more sick.

(Ok, children, mind out of the gutter.)

Seriously, he told me that I should avoid rubbing my eyes or else I’d give myself an eye infection. I’m THAT sick.

So sick that my kids can’t hug me. True, I can’t help get them ready for bed, or make their lunches, or break up their fights…wait. Stop… Don’t get ideas! I still hate being sick. Honestly.

 

My body fluctuates between feeling hot and cold and shivering. My mouth is dry. I stay in bed unless I need to pee. I forced myself to change the bedsheets because the smell of mucus on cotton wasn’t so appealing anymore.

I hate this feeling of utter fatigue. Of not being able to use my mind, Of having my sleep cycle disturbed because I conk out at 3 in the afternoon, then can’t go to sleep all night.

My brain has turned to mush. To this fogy, hazy, scrambled caricature of it’s former self.

I am so sick that I haven’t seen my best friend in almost two weeks. That I’ve cancelled my children’s after school activities. That when my son asked if I could pick his brother up after school because his hands were numb from the cold, I told him to “suck it up.”

I need my brain back. I need my energy back. I need to be able to drink coffee again, and not just peppermint tea and warmed up orange juice.

I need to get over this. Now. C’mon pills! Do your job!