Tuesday, 9 December 2008
The Flu, Someday style
My husband's adorable 6 month-old neice, whom I've christened "germ-baby," visited for the family Christmas extravaganza this past weekend. How someone so small and so darling could manage to infect 5 of us with the flu, I'll never understand. I thought I'd escaped the curse, but it serves me right for being smug when everyone else got it. This morning, I woke up and knew one simple fact: the toilet and I would become very, very good friends today.
Thankfully I only have a mild dose of old Influenzie. D's dad got it and threw up four times during the night. (D told me that when the old man retches, the whole house shakes.) D's brother got it and actually missed work for the first time in years. So I count myself lucky to work at home and be in close proximity to the porcelain god.
The worst thing about having just a mild case of the flu, in my opinion, is not the stomach pains, the inability to keep anything down or the shakes: it's the BOREDOM. OH, the boredom! I hate TV (and we don't have a connection yet anyway), I've read every book I can think of, not to mention every Sears/Home Hardware/Agricultural flyer I can find, I've stared out every window of the house, and I've napped until my back aches. Neko keeps groaning and sighing at the bottom of the stairs but I can't stray far enough away from the bathroom to take her for a walk. The second worst thing? Not being able to eat anything delicious. Yesterday was D's birthday, and there's a whole rack of chocolate cupcakes taunting me from the counter. But alas...I'm attempting to follow the flu-related "BRAT" diet, which consists of bananas, rice, applesauce and toast. I feel like a four year old.
Things, of course, could be worse. I could have a raging case and be retching my guts out. Or D could have it and we could both be sick at the same time, something not conducive to marital harmony. So I'll just keep spooning applesauce into my mouth and shut up. After all, maybe D will bring me a movie and some ginger ale when he comes home. Or better yet, maybe he'll stroke my hair as I lay prone on the couch and say, "Aww, you poor thing." THAT makes being sick all worth while.