I think, all things considered, that I would rather be in bed right now than at work, would rather be watching cartoons from beneath the covers and wondering what sort of toast I might like–raisin bread or whole wheat? with butter, jelly, or perhaps both?–or which book I might like to read when I finally decide to get up and make my way to the couch. I suppose I should be happy enough that I can eat at all, that my throat will allow me to swallow, and I should content myself with the nine really quite sufficient hours of sleep I got last night. But I’m still a little tired, and it’s a cloudy day, and this is my first day back at work in about a week. I’ve grown used to not being here–and c’mon now, it’s not like I’ve been on vacation or anything like that.
I’ve been sick, and pretty unbearably so for awhile there. Thursday was the most difficult, I think, and I can’t imagine that I slept more than an hour all night. My strep throat has taken its sweet time reacting to the antibiotics, and for a few days I couldn’t drink or eat anything without wanting to cry out in pain, grab hold of something, or spit up afterwards. A glass of water was an ordeal. I couldn’t even swallow my own saliva. So, when I finally made it to Friday morning, I called my doctor (who a week ago I had not yet even met) and arranged another visit. My mother, because she loves me and was worried, came out from New York that afternoon to watch over me and drive me to my appointment. It seems strange, really, that only a few hours later I was feeling much better, that I was sitting on the couch eating my first meal in a week, watching television, and able–not without some discomfort, sure, but still able–to swallow. I guess I just needed to get over that hump, rehydrate myself and get some food in my stomach. I’m not cured; my throat is still sore and I need to finish my antibiotics, but I’m at work again and that’s got to count for something, right?
Just one question: is it time to go home yet?