Illness and injury has struck Chez Evil. Mr. Sweetie--despite working in a health care industry--has come down with something that knocked him on his ass on Sunday, and is still giving him those thrill rides of illness. You know, like aches and chills and dizziness and all over general weakness. Kind of like a really good rollercoaster ride, except not.
He was so sick yesterday that we conducted a house-wide scavenger hunt for a thermometer. When Mr. Sweetie appeared downstairs, dressed and allegedly ready to take the kidlets to school and go to work--but pale and drawn as an Edvard Munch painting, we had the following dialogue:
Me: So, what did the thermometer say?
Mr. Sweetie: . . . .
Me: So! You have a temperature so high that you aren't going to tell me because good sense would then require that you stay home because you are--in fact--too sick to be going to work!
Mr. Sweetie: . . . .That's pretty much it, on the button.
Of course, being raised with a solid and admirable work ethic, Mr. Sweetie went in to work, with the promise he would come home early. Which he did...for him. So, while I admire and respect (as well as personally unfairly benefit) from this work ethic, I did suggest that maybe he ought to rethink his position. Sure, he was scheduled for an important meeting with the two highest ranking people in his company--but, and maybe this is just me, one of those men is about 80 years old. And maybe, just as a matter of courtesy or something, he might want to know he was going to have a meeting with someone virulently ill and probably contagious, and might want to have the opportunity to NOT EXPOSE HIMSELF TO FLU?!?!?!
But then, I apparently have lost my work ethic--it's bound to be around here somewhere, and maybe it'll show up--so I have no moral authority on this point. Besides, if Mr. Sweetie were home yesterday, it might have interfered with my demanding schedule of bubble bath, paperback novel, and bon bons.
This morning, his temperature was only 100, so it had dropped TWO WHOLE DEGREES (damn, that man was really sick yesterday), so he got up and headed out again. He is stopping a a medical facility to get checked out before he goes to the office. Which I applaud, especially since there is NO Lifetime Achievement Oscar Award for Method Working--putting himself in the place of a character who is healthy, and then acting accordingly is not recognized by The Academy.
On top of that, The Bunny is home sick too. She was movin' and groovin' last night until right at 9:30, when some invisible assailant socked her in the gut, and she curled up and went to bed complaining of a stomach ache. This morning, she didn't feel any better, and given the crud that has been documented in our household, I've kept her home and let her sleep.
Pony is still going strong, so that's good. Me? Well, I don't have a bug. But it's February 1st, which means we are now officially in the month that is the time where my depression gets the best of me. I've already noticed over the past couple of weeks that despite the fact that I WANT to so some stuff, I don't seem to be able to actually DO it. I ended up resigning from the board of a really nifty non-profit organization--full of retired nuns, who are the rocking-est women on the planet--because I just can't do for them what I want to do. And rather than berate myself for constantly failing them, and actually failing them, I've let them know that I need to step away.
Yup! It's time for a meds check! Time to go see the Prescribing Medical Professional and tweak that Wellness Cocktail! I do have to say that I am surrounded by people who are nothing but understanding and kind and encouraging about this, so I am as lucky as I can possibly be while having to deal with this chronic suckage. I mean, if one has to be depressed, I'm not sure there are many better situations than what I have. Sure, the depression sucks great big pteradactyl eggs of suckiness, and I'm constantly disappointed in myself and frustrated by my inability to do all the stuff I want to do. . .on the other hand, I am blessed with a wonderful, generous, loving and supportive husband, who cheers my successes and reinforces all my positive steps. I have two wonderful, kind, funny, gentle, smart, well-adjusted children who are more fun than TV and less work than the guinea pig.
I have a very nice little dog, who spends calm and quiet days with me, hanging around and being my pack--who is a great little cuddler and who enthusiastically naps whenever I need it.
So, really, I know I am fortunate, and I wouldn't trade my life with anyone--except I wouldn't mind getting back to the person I used to be before this depression shit hit. Oh well, at least I don't have the flu. Yet.