On a scale of one to ten: one being I feel like I drank sixteen Sambucas with the Marchioness last night and now I would gladly welcome death as an alternative to an alcohol poisoning hell lingering, and ten being primed and ready to destroy any obstacle in my path to world domination à la Claire Underwood, I’d say I’m settling around a three.
I am unquantifiably fucked off with being sick.
I have pneumonia which is a right pain in the chest. I guess that explains why I haven’t been able to shake off this dose for almost two months. Wheeze cough splutter – attractive.
For some reason the spring cleaning couldn’t wait. The utter carnage of the apartment was climbing the walls, mocking me and my lack of domestic attention as I lay on my sick bed or shuffled to the medicine shelf to knock back more paracetemol and Exputex. Finally, I went back to the doctor, swallowing the “waste” of another sixty euro, along with yet more ibuprofen, and god knows what for prescriptions. So at least now I should be on the mend? Hopefully. I could’ve built a clinic in remote sub-Saharan Africa for the amount I’ve spent on my lungs lately.
I’m also pretty deaf. Sometimes, I’m thankful for that, having two dogs and a teenager on Easter break.
ElsaDaughter was a massive help during the week. I really wasn’t able to be doing much more than bingeing on The West Wing during reprieves from cold, sweaty, gross naps but, of course, being obsessive and fussy I had to stick to my plan of having the spring cleaning done by Easter. Why can’t I just leave shit alone? There was nobody coming to visit, nobody who would see the state of the place but oh no, had to be done. I said I was doing it this week and pneumonia wasn’t going to stop me. Temporarily halt me with a dizzy fever every now again but not stop me completely.
Many times I thought I’d faint; pass out from an inability to breathe or sink into a pool of my own sweat. But with ElsaDaughter sweeping in to save the day, we got most of the cleaning done. There’s just my room left to do. And that looks like a student house share after semester one exams wrap up for Christmas break. Without the empty bottles.
I am so desperate to be back running. I’ve managed to get only a few days, maybe a week at a time, of good training in between bouts of phlegm production. I feel like a big squidgy ball of phlegm myself. I loathe unexercised me: I’m like pale, soggy bread thrown into the duck pond. Swollen, murky, a bit mouldy. How I long to be a thin, crisp, snappy breadstick again.
Easter Sunday was a wash out. I don’t know why I feel so crap today after a few days on antibiotics.
This prolonged bout of physical illness is really getting me down. I’m trying to tell myself I’m lucky: I’ll be better soon, it’s only a bad dose, it’s not serious but I want to feel well and healthy and strong so that I can continue putting the pieces of myself back together and move forward.
I don’t know how people with serious, chronic illness keep going with positivity. I would love to have a guest blogger on the topic if anyone’s interested. The link between physical fitness and mental wellbeing, for me, is huge, and not being able to run is turning me into a right glummy mummy.