I don’t like being sick. Being sick means I still have to do all the normal things I am supposed to do but at diminished capacity. As a single person, if I want chicken noodle soup, I need to make it myself. As a sick person, making soup is the last thing I want to do.
Once when I was running a fever, snot dripping from my nose, coughing and sneezing, I stopped into a CVS to pick up much needed Nyquil and Kleenex. I got in line and a guy in front of me started a long and involved diatribe against another customer to the clerk. I dropped the products to the floor and stumbled out. I couldn’t handle it.
Ever since that day, I’ve made sure that before winter cold season hits, I have a supply of all my necessities: extra Kleenex, extra Nyquil, Theraflu, Advil, and Sudafed.
Preparing to be sick.
All those comforts that make me feel good while sick are stocked and ready for that night I come home, sniffling, sneezing, aching, and with a throat so sore I wouldn’t be able to say ‘thank you’ to the clerk who waited on me if I had to go to the store. Tonight is one of those nights. I break out the black licorice tea, my flannel pajamas, the faux doeskin blanket, several hours of stupid sitcoms on TV and let the soporific effects of the Nyquil sweep over me.