It takes an act of God to get me to go to the doctor. An act of God, or a throat so incredibly sore that it felt like a million tiny knives were sticking my naso-oral cavity each and every time I drew a breath.
Well, that and I wanted to prove to Daver that I was sicker, damnit.
The worst part of being sick for me is the fact that my emotions go completely haywire. On any normal day, I’m fairly cheerful (shut up), and that’s tempered with only a few select other emotions. Namely, in no particular order, Hunger, Anger, and/or Sleepiness.
I’m pretty simple, really.
But the moment that rogue bacteria enters my system, it’s like an emotional switch flips to 11, and every other emotion on the spectrum of emotions begins to flood my body.
I cry at dog food commercials (and not even the sad ones), get angry at the weather for daring to dump snow onto my car, suppress every urge to kick the cats out from under my feet (my damn cats are the sweetest BUT neediest animals on the face of the planet), while trying not to weep when the baby went down for an extra long nap (what.the.fuck.was.that.about?).
When I finally put pants on and got ready to leave to go to the doctor, I realized that the snow that covered my car NEEDED TO BE REMOVED AND WAAAHHHH! I DIDN’T WANT TO DO IT! DIDN’T THE WEATHER GODS KNOW I WAS SICK, DAMNIT?
Once I’d finally gotten the car cleared off, I took off, but now the stupid windshield wipers kept going off. None too gently I flicked it back to the off position. Between my own brute strength and the arctic temperature which must have made the plastic more brittle, I snapped it off. I SNAPPED THE FUCKING WINDSHIELD WIPER GEAR THINGY OFF.
The jagged plastic tore the hell out of my wrist and forearm, giving my arm the look that I’d hysterically attempted to slit my wrists, but lacked the follow through to finish the job. I LOOKED LIKE I WAS TOO STUPID TO PROPERLY KILL MYSELF.
Apparently, I’d sunk to a whole new low.
I’m certain my doctor knew that I wasn’t quite right yesterday when he walked in the room and saw my puffy tear-streaked face. Normally, I’m shamelessly rooting through the drawers looking for medical supplies to, ahem, liberate, when he walks in. Typically, then he informs me that he doesn’t keep the samples for the good drugs OR extra prescription pads in examination rooms, and laughs heartily at my crestfallen face.
Not so much yesterday (although I would have appreciated some good drugs), though, which I am sure gave him a bit of a start. He took one look at my throat, informed me that it looked “like the stuff growing in the back of your fridge,” which is a disgustingly awesome mental picture. I got a script for some -icillin’s, and went on my merry (weeping) way.
I was up and down overnight more than the baby (which is saying a whole lot) in some terrible pain, but I’m tentatively feeling slightly better today. I watched Oprah without crying, have seen several commercials for both cell phones and dog food that haven’t fazed me in the slightest, and now that the baby is down for his morning siesta, I feel nothing but relief.
I can only hope that I will continue upon my road to recovery, lest I alienate both my husband and my eldest son (the baby doesn’t care at all either way so long as I am present and within eyeballing range) with my insufferable mood swings.
Am I the only person who reacts to sickness by becoming an emotional wreck? Am I a freak? IS THIS HOW NON-EMOTIONALLY STUNTED PEOPLE LIVE THEIR LIVES?