Too Sick to Write

I started off the new year right.

I hit my goal of working out five times a week. I wrote every day and published nearly as often. I read a lot and visited with friends and felt healthier than I had in a while.

And then, the great plague hit our house.

Photo by Ani Kolleshi on Unsplash

Well, maybe not a plague. More of a strep-throat-flu-kinda-thing.

My son got it first. He woke one Sunday with a bad headache and spent the day slumped on the sofa (instead of bouncing off the walls), so we knew something was up. By Monday, he was capital-s Sick. A strep test came back positive, so he began antibiotics, and by Tuesday afternoon he was back to wall bouncing like nothing had ever happened.

That’s when I started to feel it. Headache. Congestion. A dry, sore throat, as if I’d guzzled a mug of hot lava.

I went to the doctor, and though the news was good (no strep!), it was also bad (no strep). The doctor put me on antibiotics anyway, “just in case,” but they’re not doing anything. So now, a week in, I’m still sick. Headache, congestion, sneezing, and a cough that tears my throat to shreds.

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

Needless to say, I haven’t worked out. I haven’t written. I did manage to churn out a couple of listicles, but beyond that I haven’t completed anything worth sharing. I don’t even want to read anything right now. I’m so tired and my brain feels fuzzy and I just want to sleep and OMG how does my son have so much energy?!?

I hate this. I feel lazy. There’s nothing worse than desperately wanting to do something — write, exercise, be productive —but be physically unable to do it.

I really hope this cold-strep-whatever-it-is leaves soon.

Because I’m really sick of being sick.