The horror of feeling as sick as a squashed pumpkin battered by winds and witches. That describes my Sunday. Today I just feel normal sick. Like in the days when I used to teach and students would come to office hours sneezing out of control and inevitably passing on their colds. That kind of sick.
I am relieved. I have before me a complicated week and I cannot afford to be down and out. I have two more days of isolation and then I'll test to see if masks are in order (they probably are) for the handful of days after. May this Covid thing be a bad dream that inevitably comes to an end! Not my end, mind you, but a Covid end.
Still, I cant say that I am feeling peppy. On a slow crawl in the morning and dragging in the afternoon. That's okay -- I relish a (rather late) walk to the barn to feed the hens and yes, that more or less fills my movement quotient for the day...
But at least I do not pass on breakfast.
My clinic nurse asks the usual questions targeting an ancient Covid patient -- are you sure you can breathe, are you confused. I mean, I'm talking to her a mile a minute. So no, not any of that.
My daughter tells me the kids miss farmhouse time. Well yeah! I have to think Ed does too. Mostly, I miss the days when I did not fret about Covid. Yes, I'm sure after all this is said and done, I will come out thinking -- oh, that was a no big deal! A few sick days and boom, onwards and upwards.
But I'm not there yet. Ask me tomorrow.
