Whine

The phrase "killing time" has always seemed a moral affront to me. Killing time. Why would we want to do that, when the single most precious commodity we possess is the years of our lives? We only get a certain amount of it and we can't buy more. Why "kill" or "waste" time? Why not cherish every bit of it we can, in whatever means possible?

All very nice in theory. In reality, here I sit, killing time. I'm waiting for things to get better.

The boy has brought home several weeks worth of serial viruses, the sorts of niggling things which don't kill you but sap your energy and leave you feeling miserable. Several different colds, by the feel of it, and what's this? A bout of G.I. distress? Sure, why not. Let's do it all. Wheeze, snort, puke, squirt. Let's support the tissue industry. Gosh, if I knew which (if any) papers were manufactured in the U.S., I'd go snort in them and give the economy a little boost.

At this point, we are at the beginning of our fourth week of viral hell. No sooner do our immune systems rebound from one onslaught than the next begins. Or not. This week, the boy spent two nights in a row whimpering and shrieking every few minutes. Sleep deprivation from that pretty much blew my recovery away. On the bright side, the doctor seems to think that it's all just what I thought it was, a succession of viruses offered up by the human petri dish that is school. No strep, no bronchitis, no malaria, no black plague. Okay. I'll take whatever blessings I can get, not that I get a choice in the matter.

So, here I sit. I'm sick, and sick of being sick. I'm sick of the sounds I make when I'm sick, sick of having my voice sound like I'm a 300 pound male in drag, sick of not being able to smell my house or the refrigerator or anything I cook. Is the milk a bit off? Is my deodorant working? Who knows. Guess I'll have to take my chances. Stand back everyone; I may smell bad!

Today my right eye decided to join in the festivities. It swelled up, turned red, and began oozing gunk. Where is the justice in that, I ask you? In a fair world, mucus would confine itself to one's nostrils and remain discreetly out of sight. One is not supposed to have to blow one's eyes!

On top of that, I have a huge bruise on my right thigh from backing into the corner of a table at my son's school. My nose is either broken or severely bruised, from my son (accidentally) banging his head into it. Blowing my nose brings exquisite agony. There's also the merest hint of a crackling sound when my nose is flexed. It freaks me out, so I'm trying to pretend it isn't happening. I even lied to my husband and told him that no, my nose isn't making any funny noises, so it probably isn't broken. Then I flashed my giant bruise at him, which both distracted him and acted as an impromptu form of birth control. (Because, honestly, who wouldn't want to jump the bones of someone who is expectorating, has a red oozing droopy eye, and has a potentially broken nose? All of that pretty much spells irresistible sex appeal, methinks.)

The discomfort from all of this crap isn't anywhere as bad as that of childbirth or the time my appendix decided it wanted to divorce me. However, in those cases, I could look ahead and predict an end. "However awful things are right now, this time tomorrow, the baby will probably be here and this pain will be receding in the rearview mirror. All I have to do is get through until then." Or: "Hey, they're calling in a surgeon and pretty soon I'll be knocked out! This time tomorrow, I'll be on the path to recovery." (And, I might add, have a mucky-muck from HP in the next gurney, groping for her business card in case I wanted a job. I wish I had pursued that.)

When is this going to be over and take on the sepia tinge of an amusing memory? You know, like "Hah hah! Remember the time my gall bladder was acting up, and I puked in the bushes just as Neighbor J-- was walking by? Oh, man. I wonder what he thought?"

Seriously. When is this going to be over?