For the past few weeks, I have been struggling mightily with what I believed to be an allergy-related cold and sinus infection. I tried everything - pills, change of diet, masssive doses of Vitamin, prayer - and yet nothing seemed to work. A few days ago, tired of my beleaguered state and needing some help getting ahead of the massive buckets of mucus, I went to the walk-in clinic and got a diagnosis that left me humbled and slightly shocked: pneumonia. Sweet Mother Of Jesus, I thought to myself as I left the office with my prescription (for a scorced earth-type of antibiotic AND a puffer...Damn!), if I didn't think I was old before, I sure as Hell know it now.
Before heading home to download Enya albums and episodes of Matlock, I told myself that I would do my best to stay off my feet and really give my body a chance to heal. No housework, I thought to myself. No yard work, no errands, no laundry. Just healing. And reading. And sleeping. And more healing. Serenity. Now. Now, dammit!
Guess how long this deal with the devil lasted?
I'm just gonna make dinner and then I'll sit. Wait no, after I make the kid's lunches, then....Shoot, I gotta get cat litter! I'll get it after I drive the kids to their after school activities. Might as well pick up some groceries while I'm there....Car needs gas, too, sooooo.....
The whole experience reminded me of an article I read last week about reading. The author was lamenting how he could never remember the plot of any of the books that he'd read. What's the point of reading at all, then, he surmised? Why not just watch golf? Same thing with pneumonia. Why even bother giving me a pneumonia diagnosis if you aren't going to send me home with a a giant mallet and lock for my bedroom door? Sheesh.