I came down with whooping cough.
I know, I didn’t think it existed outside of Dickens’ novels either, but it does. Oh, it does.
So for two whole weeks I’ve been coughing like a consumption victim, unable to sleep, and drinking codeine cough syrup like it’s the latest fad. Missing lots of work from the day job I can ill afford to miss, as well.
The aspect I hate about being sick, other than the pain and discomfort and the endless coughing, is the enforced non-productivity. I’m sitting around the house, good for nothing, and I’d love to use that time to write or work on my art but NO, I’m drugged into senselessness and too weak to lift a pencil.
When my mother was dying, there were days she could barely make it from her bed to the kitchen. I would read stories to her in bed because she was too weak to hold the book in her hands. I think we all forget, amongst the hurt/comfort tropes that populate romance novels and fanfiction, that being sick is more than just feeling bad; it is feeling helpless and weak.
I suspect this blog post is a bit rambly, but I did mention the codeine, right?
Hopefully by this weekend I’ll rouse myself for life or something like it…