Wednesday, June 22, 2016

At least I am no longer chanting, “God, take me now."

I have 3 different cough linctus, several boxes of pills, an inhaler, a puffer, apple cider vinegar, olive leaf extract, and various other herbal remedies, and yet I still feel like death warmed over. I have drunk so much lemon tea I am in danger of going lesbian, except for the mountain of honey I have dumped in each cup, so I’ll probably just end up hankering for a well coifed wig, cheering myself up with a couple of verses of "I am what I am.” Sounding like Bea Arthur, no doubt. I don’t have a sore throat, although the muscles in my chest are hurting from the constant hooking, nor a, particularly, blocked nose, although the mucus is steady, like treacle from a spoiled molasses bottle. I have a cough that sounds like I have smoked a million cigarettes, which, um, er, come to think of it, I may have. Nervous look. But certainly not any time recently. I sound like an emphysemic hooker, the type that would shake as she does BJ’s at truck stops for a fiver, bent over with me skid-marked undies showing. And yet, I feel better than I did yesterday. I’m spending yet another day in bed, surrounded by a sea of used tissues, with my trusty bulldog side kick. Sam bought me breakfast and coffee and pills and a stern talking to (roll of the eyes, he thinks I should go to the doctor) before he left for work. It is 8am and the sun is shining in through my balcony doors and I am warm and comfortable. At least I am no longer chanting, “God, take me now."

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