I’m a terrible patient. Really, I am.
I always have these grand visions of myself in a wheelchair, snuggled sadly into the couch insisting that my husband minister to my bedsores every single hour. Maybe I could even start moaning while I breathe, just for effect. If I were a good patient, I’d never for a moment allow anyone to forget that I was sick or hurt or whatever, and dominate any and all conversations with lengthy descriptions of my bowel movements and sputum.
It would be AWESOME.
But no, here I sit on the couch where I am supposed to be “resting” and bored out of my mind. I don’t sit around quietly well, never have, and I prefer to buzz around the house like a chubby bumblebee taking care of all the wonderful things my family leaves just for me! They’re thoughtful like that.
Normally my cure for boredom is a drink and some online shopping (if I’m stuck in the house) but I don’t even have anything to look for. So I’m stuck sitting here, my foot looking hugely pregnant and kind of scary and trying to forget that I am pregnant, too. Not with (I hope) a Foot Baby.
I’ve managed pretty well to ignore being pregnant because if I think about it I worry, and the last thing I need is to worry myself in circles. Worrying is useless. Kind of like sitting around like a slug. Useless.
So Internet, oh sweet Internet, what the hell should I do while I heal?