Day 118 - Sick Day

When I woke up this morning, I couldn't believe how dang tired I was. I could barely push myself out of bed. On day nine of no caffeine, I couldn't help but think 'wtf? still tired? if this is life without coffee then I quit quitting.'

Instead I booked an appointment with Dr. Google. As I searched 'exhaustion' and 'adrenal fatigue,' my tiredness morphed into a headache that felt like a punch in my left eye. I started to wonder if the continual caffeine intake had only been masking a complete health failure. Was caffeine propping me up like rag doll? Sure to fall over without support...

But by noon my neck felt swollen. My throat filled with raw sand. Wait a second.

Sneezing sets in. Watery eyes. Shit.

I'm sick as a dawg.

I was kind of relieved. I was thinking my no caffeine experiment was yielding arg-worthy results. On the other hand, I'm sick. Arg.

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In other sickly news...

I hate the little pieces of pink chicken in Campbell's chicken noodle soup. Why can't they just make noodle soup in chicken broth? Why add the little shredded morsels of loose meat? I pick them all out, one by one.

It grosses me out to think of how long they've been dead and floating around in my salty broth. Years perhaps? So I could be eating four-year-old dead chicken? I know they've been on my shelf for atleast four months. Disgusting.

When I'm sick, I miss my mother immensely. My mom was the best mom EVER when I was sick. For some reason, as a teenager, I was sick a lot. Much more than my brother or sister. It was always a problem with my throat and it always knocked me on my ass. At least three days. Can't talk. Can't walk. Can barely swallow or lift my head.

My mom was like an angel, swooping down with a look of love and concern. She'd dote on me all day. Antibiotics. Soup. Crackers. Tea. And a few lucky times, a touch of hot brandy mixed with tea. She said it soothed my throat and also put me sleep. It did. Both of those things.

I loved how whenever I woke, she was there, with medicine or soup. I didn't have to think about anything, I just fell in and out of sleep. The days would go by and she'd be my blurry consistent. Nursing me back. Until one day, I'd crave something solid and I'd watch reruns all day.

Don't get me wrong, Dave is good. He stocks the cupboard with Nyquil and saltines. And he says, "I'm sorry you're sick, babe." If I ask him, he'll stir me a pot of soup. Butter my crackers.

But still, moms are just better than boys. They just have the perfect mix of love, concern, and get-better-know-how. They give you what you need before you ask.

I remember one time when my mom was sick she said, "Who takes care of mom when she's sick?" As busy teenagers, it surely wasn't us.

It seems that by the time your heart grows big enough to love your mom the way she loved you, it's too late. You're gone. All growed up. Too far away to reciprocate the kind of day-to-day love she bestowed on you.

As I get older, I understand this sad catch-22 more and more. I suffer alone on the couch. I feebly ask Dave for water, hoping not to bother him. Everything maternal in me gives; never takes. As we get older and the estrogen thubs through our blood, the only override of this instinct is mom.

I guess what I'm really saying is...

I want my mommy :-(