In thinking about what to write in my blog post this week, the thing that’s been most prevalent is my sickness: my actual physical sickness and my heart sickness over this horrible election result and the future of this country (and perhaps even the world).
I don’t get ill very often, but when I do, it’s usually bronchial in nature and it frequently involves copious amounts of coughing. My freshman year in college, I had bronchitis pretty much from October till May; I don’t know how my roommate Erika put up with me, let alone wanted to live with me again.
This version of the coughing illness is made even more horrible because my coughing evidently disturbs the neighbors, evidenced by the lady downstairs banging on her ceiling the first night the hacking began. Thankfully, she may have grown some empathy (or perhaps she’s away, which seems more likely) because she hasn’t banged since, perhaps since I’ve been trying to direct all of my night coughing into my pillows – at least when I’m AWARE that I’m coughing, which I often am, which also means that I’m not sleeping very much. But coughing into my pillow is still noisy, and it’s jarring. I’m certain my whole bed shakes. My friend down the hall gave me some Vicks Vap-o-rub, which she swears will help me sleep. That aroma of camphor and menthol always reminds me of being a kid, because that’s what my mother – and my grandmother before her – would slather on my chest whenever I had a coughing sickness.
Fortunately, I don’t get the bad cough every year, especially since I quite smoking cigarettes in 2010, but when it does come, the coughing itself is legendary. This one is BAD, exacerbated by the high rise neighbor shame. At least in my own house, with my kid away at school, I don’t disturb anyone but the animals, although for some reason, Gizmo likes to be even closer to me than usual when I’m sick like this; maybe he thinks he’s helping to hold my guts in.
I don’t want to go to the doctor thanks to a shortage of money and time, so I’ve been taking Duricef left over from a bout earlier this fall with sinusitis. (Often when I think my cough is bronchial it turns out to be my sinuses and the resultant post-nasal drip.) But if it doesn’t lessen in the next day or so, I may have to break down and make an appointment.
Of course, no amount of antibiotics can cure my OTHER sickness: the Donald-Trump-is-President-of-the-United-States sickness. That affliction will last four years, provided he doesn’t abdicate or get impeached. In all the photos I’ve seen of him lately (and the fewer I see of those, the better – I literally hate the sight of the man), he looks dumbfounded, like he can’t believe what he’s gotten himself and his family into. And speaking of his Stepford Children (poor shell-shocked Barron, standing on the stage as his father claimed his victory; if he only knew what’s in store for him . . . ), they can’t have it both ways: They can’t be in his inner circle as president and also run his company. It’s unprecedented and it’s absolutely wrong. Maybe he will get enough pushback on this issue to have an impact, although that will be tough in this environment, where the lame ducks have no power and everybody in the Republican party is kissing as much Trump ass as they possibly can. Grow a spine, people. These are the folks whom we have entrusted with our governance? Well, more than half the people who actually voted – not to mention those slackers who didn’t vote at all –did NOT want to entrust their governance to these people, which is why I have no idea how Republicans were able to hold on to so many congressional seats. I’ve got the shakes just thinking about it.
The sickness (both varieties) has also resulted in the temporary abandonment of my walking regimen. It actually would be beneficial to my health if I started walking again; I’m sure it would clear my sinuses, as well as my head. But I just can’t muster the energy. Lack of sleep will do that to you. It also doesn’t help that I used to walk at sunset, but now by 6 p.m. we’re already in the dark of night. It kind of makes my evening walks a little less attractive, but that’s what I’m stuck with until the spring.
Now that I’ve gotten that off my chest, I’m officially done with whining about my physical woes (the heart woes will linger, I’m afraid, but I’ve become almost numb to them; I’m just waiting – as I did throughout the election – for Trump to shoot himself in the foot and/or take himself out, overwhelmed by the magnitude of the expectations of the leader of the Free World). My illness is a mere annoyance, a wrinkle in the fabric of my life. It is NOTHING compared to the trials some of my dear friends have gone through recently (and some are currently going through). It makes me almost embarrassed to complain. In fact, every night, when I’m saying my prayers of gratefulness, I always thank the Higher Power for my “relative good health.” But man, I sure hope I return to my NORMAL physical limitations soon. I’ve got too much to do. There’s money to be earned, the kid will be home for the holidays and my house (hopefully) will be finished soon, so relocation – and a REAL return to normalcy – is right around the corner. I have no time for sickness of ANY kind.