… on a sick day
January 10, 2016
Yesterday was a sick day in our house. For only me, really.
But, as the old adage goes, if mom ain’t happy, no one’s happy.
Which really doesn’t 100 percent mesh with mom having a sick day, but we let Granny know not to come over (in case an amoeba decided to hitchhike on her), and that meant I was left with three men and me.
So I had a day of the traditional – in Dingleville – ginger ale (to settle my belly), hot tea with honey (to make sure I didn’t get a lack-of-caffeine headache), water for hydration of course, and then the absolutely necessary saltines and chicken soup when I could handle them.
But there were also important extras (as in, not Mom’s traditional remedies), as defined by my menfolk.
Sam mixed me a 1/3 concoction of Gatorade to 2/3 water (he said the percentage of mixture was of critical importance, but the flavor was not, so I chose “blue”). He said something about electrolytes which was very funny to me, but I accepted my light blue potion nonetheless.
JoHn decided that there should be a six-foot circumference zone around me at all times because the amoebas can not ‘jump’ (Yes, ‘jump’. We argued over that word vs. “amoeba” (I thought amoeba could totally be used as a verb, as in ‘he amoeba’d over to me’, but JoHn said I only thought that because I probably had a fever)… anyway the six-foot zone was because that would keep the human race safe from deadly me.
Gabe didn’t have very much to say. I did notice that he honored the hot zone though.
I slept on and off through the morning and afternoon, a German ShepHerd or two coming to check on me periodically. Blaze honoring the fact that I didn’t feel good, approaching slowly and whining to make her presence known. A quick lick on the cheek and then she would settle beside me.
Marshal Dillon Dingle waiting until I was sound asleep before he leapt onto my chest and stood there, grateful that mom made the sofa practically stuck-proof. Later, he would go settle on his ‘place’ (a.k.a., a footstool known as ‘Pride Rock'(see photo above)) and ponder what exactly his role was when Mom rested, mostly horizontal, for a whole day. That being said, Marshal does not really ‘think’ for very long, so he had to come back and stand on my chest… often).
And then there was Sam, letting me know during one waking period when I actually sat up, that I – once again – was probably going to have to be ‘off’d’ should the zombie apocalypse happen right then.
Yes. I always know where I stand with Number One Son, Sam. He has made this very clear.
The issue at hand wasn’t even that I was sick and unable to probably defend myself (I argued that adrenaline would kick in and I would totally be able to slash myself out of our living room). The issue was a combination of things really. One being that this particular illness seemed to be preventing me from consuming food, thus rendering me in a weakened condition (I said we could hold up somewhere so I could recover. Sam said I would infect the herd. I said you don’t call a group of people a herd. Sam reminded me he is dyslexic and stop correcting him.)
Freakin’ kid always hides there.
But anyway the real issue was, according to him, that this past week I’d suffered a tiny and nearly insignificant Achilles injury (I could walk again after, like, 48 hours. It was nothing.). But I did reach out to my friend, who is an orthopoedic nurse, for some advice. And it just so happened that, when I texted her, she was lunching with her friend, who is an ortho-guy who treats Baltimore Ravens people (ya, I mean, practically not even qualified). After describing my symptoms, and after she said I needed to go see a specialist (fine) and get an MRI (which I once got, but will re-get) they decided that I may be one run away from a ruptured Achilles.
I was super excited!
Because that translated into “Lisa Dingle has practically has a prescription to never ever ever ever in her entire life run again. Ever.”
It is the prescription that dreams are made of.
Unless you have a 21-year-old named Sam and he is watching you closely, trying to figure out if you fit into his zombie apocalypse action plan.
Which, no matter how much I tried to convince him that I am wicked fast-moving sideways (seriously, I can do that do-si-do thing in the gym for, like, ever. Also, for some reason I seem to be able to skip, and since I am quite tall, I can really move skipping.
To wit, Sam said that form matters and that skipping away from Zombies would not be acceptable.
Which was when I called him a racist.
Because that always seems to stop people in their tracks.
And as the hour got late, and Sam was arguing with JoHn about the benefits of watching Zombeavers over Grave Encounters, I made my way upstairs.
I got in between the crisp, clean (and I’m sure, because JoHn washed them, disinfected) sheets, and pulled my down comforter (we call it “the heavy”) up to my chin and was quietly grateful for my day.
Sure, there was every bad thing that a stomach bug can cause. There was even a migraine.
But there was also the quiet silliness of a family hanging out with a tribe member who wasn’t feeling well. Laughing and telling stories.
And trying to figure out how to cull the weak one from the herd.
Can’t beat that.
Thanks for readin’.
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