I think I'm going to leave work early today. I'm at that peculiar stage of malaise where I feel like bursting into tears at nothing at all.
Well, not nothing. My kidneys are beginning to ache, and I absolutely do not want to go to the hospital again. I'm drinking water, and I'm getting enough rest, and I'm taking all the right herbs, but I still don't seem to be getting any better-- in fact, I'm getting more tender, more irritable, more washed out. I woke up this morning with a terrible headache that has not let up. I'm so tired of this. I'm tired of not feeling well.
It's odd how the times I really miss Mike the most are the times when I'm sick. He always went out of his way to make me laugh when I was sick-- he saw it as his opportunity to really shine, to be SuperBoyfriend. It's kind of sadly amusing to me that he seemed to like when I took ill, because he enjoyed taking care of me-- stirring the soup, bringing endless bags from RiteAid, renting movies, rubbing my hair until I fell asleep. It always made me feel so well taken care of. Maybe it's because I'm so uncomfortable being vulnerable that he particularly liked to be around me then-- I was a little less put together, a little closer to the core of what's beneath. I remember a time my freshman year of college where I had to go home for a few days after a particularly nasty bout of Labyrinthitis. The only place I could stand to be was in the basement-- cool, dark, muffled. He came over in the morning before he started work-- got all of my medication lined up, brought a glass of water. I fell asleep with my head in his lap. When I awoke nine hours later, he was sitting at the foot of the couch with his laptop, his hand on my knee. He'd come straight back from work to be there with me, to make sure I was okay. But that's neither here nor there. Ancient history.
I feel terrible, shaky. I'm going to go home, lie in a warm tub, have some comfort food, and go to bed early.
Well, not nothing. My kidneys are beginning to ache, and I absolutely do not want to go to the hospital again. I'm drinking water, and I'm getting enough rest, and I'm taking all the right herbs, but I still don't seem to be getting any better-- in fact, I'm getting more tender, more irritable, more washed out. I woke up this morning with a terrible headache that has not let up. I'm so tired of this. I'm tired of not feeling well.
It's odd how the times I really miss Mike the most are the times when I'm sick. He always went out of his way to make me laugh when I was sick-- he saw it as his opportunity to really shine, to be SuperBoyfriend. It's kind of sadly amusing to me that he seemed to like when I took ill, because he enjoyed taking care of me-- stirring the soup, bringing endless bags from RiteAid, renting movies, rubbing my hair until I fell asleep. It always made me feel so well taken care of. Maybe it's because I'm so uncomfortable being vulnerable that he particularly liked to be around me then-- I was a little less put together, a little closer to the core of what's beneath. I remember a time my freshman year of college where I had to go home for a few days after a particularly nasty bout of Labyrinthitis. The only place I could stand to be was in the basement-- cool, dark, muffled. He came over in the morning before he started work-- got all of my medication lined up, brought a glass of water. I fell asleep with my head in his lap. When I awoke nine hours later, he was sitting at the foot of the couch with his laptop, his hand on my knee. He'd come straight back from work to be there with me, to make sure I was okay. But that's neither here nor there. Ancient history.
I feel terrible, shaky. I'm going to go home, lie in a warm tub, have some comfort food, and go to bed early.