Tag: sick

Saturday’s Theme Music

Mood: umgagleah

Hello. Welcome to Saturday, October 18, 2024.

Beautifully autumn outside. Trees blaze, showing off fab colors. Blue sky highlights the look as the sun beams on it like a doting father. We’re up to 62 F after an overnight shift into the upper thirties. 74 F degrees is being held out a possible high.

My floofs are on this weather like children going after their Halloween candy. It’s perfect feline weather for the moment. Each boi has staked out sunny spots and are living up to their stereotypes as well-groomed, sun-loving beasts.

We received our latest COVID Jab — or COVAB, as I put to others but it’s not catching on. Went much like our first jab back into 2021. First hours, okay. Last night, the vax slammed me down and wouldn’t let me up. I crashed in a big way. Wrapped up in sheets and blankets, my head felt like a match that’d been struck and was burning. Then I spent a period of shivering uncontrollably.

After about thirteen hours of sleep, I forced myself out of bed. The cats helped. They’re like, “Dude, we must be fed and let out. Come on, get your priorities straight and get your ass out of bed.”

So I arose like a creaking suit of armor. Made my path to the kitchen where coffee was administered. Coffee is a wonder drug, don’tcha know. Anyway, I thought along the lines of being out of sync physically and mentally, a condition that borders on being called ‘sick’. The Neurons began playing Jackson Browne and “Doctor My Eyes”. Grazing through the net, I found this version from “Playing for Change”. Hope you like it.

Stay positive and test negative. Get the jab, as it will help, in the long run. Here’s the music. Where is my coffee?

Cheers

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Monday’s Theme Music

Mood: unenthusiastic

Monday came in for me like a snail runnin’ the hundred meters. It’s October 16, 2023.

53 F now in Ashlandia, where the wine is local and the Pinot Noir is pretty damn good. An unrelenting, unhappy wind is assailing us under a dull gray sky. Rain is due. Fall is assuming its familiar form. Leaves changed color and now they’re dropping off trees, piling up again curbs and in yards, and zipping past windows on a zephyr motor.

Birthdays are pending. Cards and gifts must be purchased and sent. October is our family’s heaviest birthday month, with one past and eight due.

Mom’s birthday is one of them. I’m not sure what to get her. Sitting and conversing at Empty Bowls on Friday, someone mentioned something. I said, “Maybe I should get that for Mom for her birthday.”

Beside me, my wife brightned. “That’s a great idea.”

Neither can remember what ‘it’ was. We’re still working on pulling it out of memory. Sometimes it takes two minds to remember things. LOL.

Still sick. Stayed in from writing yesterday. Mostly read and napped, watched some NFL football.

Sore throat is gone; yea. Energy, though, is really tanked. Like someone siphoned it away. Headache was there and ears were hurting this morning. But I drank coffee to kick start my energy. Surprise, the head and ear pains fled. So hurray for coffee, once again.

Locking into my mood, The Neurons have positioned “Ridin’ the Storm Out” by REO Speedwagon into the morning mental music stream (Trademark ignored). The 1981 song emerged when I was stationed with the Air Force on Okinawa, Japan.

Okinawa is a narrow island and subject to typhoons/tropical cyclones. These were often endured with ‘Phoon Parties’. You tape over and board over the windows with what you can find. Then you raid the booze store on base and the Commissary to buy provisions. While the aircraft were evacuated, we prepared to survive a few days, possibly without electricity.

My wife and I were fortunate in our first three years. We had a tiny off-base apartment in a tiny apartment building. The landlords lived on the bottom floor, and a dozen US couples lived in the apartments. During a ‘phoon, we could visit each other via the inside hallways, so we’d play games like Uno, or Trivial Pursuit, or visit to chat and borrows stuff.

Time to light this Monday. Stay pos, be strong, and keep well. Here’s the music. More coffee, stat. Cheers

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A Sick Dream

First, I was introduced to a security database. It was locked up in a yellow train car that was permanently parked on railroad tracks beside another rail car, red, that was a cafe or restaurant. After being shown it, I was taken to where I lived. I’d be working out of my house. It was an apartment or condo on a plaza’s ground floor. The living room had a large window. From it, I could see the yellow car which held the security database. That pleased me.

My wife had gone out. I was feeling sick. The bed was right off the living room in the house’s front. I had a cold, and my vision was teary and blurry. I also had seven cats. “ALF”, the ‘alien life form’ from the U.S. sitcom shown for several years in the late 1980s, a show I was aware of but rarely if ever watched, was present to help take care of the cats. One cat was sick; I told ALF to give it a shot. He fired buckshot at the cats, and then told me, “I think we had some miscommunication.”

My wife arrived home. I told her I was sick and noticed she was, too, but with milder symptoms, and then told her what ALF had done. My illness seemed to be worsening. Two of my wife’s friends arrived. They sat down to have coffee and tea and chat while I climbed onto the bed to try to rest. I didn’t have any blankets or sheets and kept shifting positions, trying to be comfortable. One of her friends asked my wife, “What’s wrong with him?” My wife replied, “Oh, he’s just sick.”

Dream end.

7

Not Writing

It’s a bummer of a day.

You don’t need to read this. I just need to write it out. Therapy.

I’m sick, and it’s encouraging depression.

It’s mostly a chest cold. Nothing major. I can sometimes hear my breathing in my chest, particularly on my left side. Other symptoms are arising in my head and joints.

Bummer. I wrestled a long time about not going out to walk and write. I wrestled for a long time about whether I should wash up. A compromise was reached that I would shower. Then the question was, hot or cold? I haven’t taken a hot shower since March 20. I really didn’t want to break that streak just because I’m under the weather.

Another compromise was extended and accepted that I would take a short warm shower.  Then, scorning myself, I took the cold shower. It was probably a stupid decision. It felt freezing. Then, though, no shaving.

What about deodorant? Debating that for a few minutes helped convince me not to go write. I didn’t understand what the debate was about. Why was it a question?

I’d lost my boxer shorts somewhere between the master bedroom and the attached master bath. I knew I’d gotten some out of the drawer; where the hell did they go? Well, I must have put them somewhere strange. No kidding. They certainly didn’t develop legs and walk out on their own, did they, as Mom would ask.

The missing boxers were found after a few minutes, hiding in plain sight on the bench at the foot of the bed. After dressing and enduring a coughing fit, I agreed with myself, don’t go out.

Then came the guilt.

Why is it that I feel guilty about being sick? Why do I feel like I’m a malingerer?

I guess it’s something about being told to work hard and be disciplined. That’s the mantra drilled into me. “Work hard. Be disciplined.” I also feel resentment because women like to mock men when they get sick. Oh, men don’t know what it’s like to suffer or experience pain. “Poor man, he has a cold. Aw.” It’s one of their standard jokes, as regular as men mocking women for getting lost or being consumed with shopping and buying shoes and clothes. So now, I’m like, validating their joke of a stereotype. Bah.

I’m also angry about being sick. I feel like I’ve betrayed myself. I feel like I’m betraying myself by accepting that I’m sick and indulging in not going out, writing and doing the things I normally do. I had plans, damn it.

Well, screw all of that. I want to go to bed.

Maybe some tea and toast first. Maybe some hot soup.

My head feels like the large granite rock in my front yard. My neck is tired of holding it up. Why the hell must I have such a large, heavy head?

Maybe just bed.

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