Actually, there's a bit of congestion... but my true diagnosis is strep throat - I woke up with the scratchy/burning feeling Saturday morning (after feeling puny all week), which only worsened progressively. I went into work this morning and was promptly told to leave - I drove straight to the walk-in clinic where, one-hour-and-a-few-dollars-lighter later my suspicions were confirmed. I filled my antibiotic prescription immediately after, came home and told the office I'd see them Wednesday morning - I just finished eating some leftover mixed wonton and eggdrop soup Robert brought me last night (ah, the heat felt soooo good on my throat) and will head back to bed soon.
I'll use the next few forced stay-at-home recovery days to take care of myself as well as get some long-neglected tasks done around the house - I'll rue the loss of income but will take this as a sign from the Universe I'm meant to go undercover (pun intended... :-)
My blood pressure was also higher than they'd like to see, so I'll be monitoring that over the next week, in addition to reading about ways I can bring it down, hopefully without medication - can you spell W-A-K-E-U-P-C-A-L-L?
SONG: The Cold Song by Jewel
POEM: Making a Fist by Naomi Shihab Nye
For the first time, on the road north of Tampico,
I felt the life sliding out of me,
a drum in the desert, harder and harder to hear.
I was seven, I lay in the car
watching palm trees swirl a sickening pattern past the glass.
My stomach was a melon split wide inside my skin.
"How do you know if you are going to die?"
I begged my mother.
We had been traveling for days.
With strange confidence she answered,
"When you can no longer make a fist."
Years later I smile to think of that journey,
the borders we must cross separately,
stamped with our unanswerable woes.
I who did not die, who am still living,
still lying in the backseat behind all my questions,
clenching and opening one small hand.
For the first time, on the road north of Tampico,
I felt the life sliding out of me,
a drum in the desert, harder and harder to hear.
I was seven, I lay in the car
watching palm trees swirl a sickening pattern past the glass.
My stomach was a melon split wide inside my skin.
"How do you know if you are going to die?"
I begged my mother.
We had been traveling for days.
With strange confidence she answered,
"When you can no longer make a fist."
Years later I smile to think of that journey,
the borders we must cross separately,
stamped with our unanswerable woes.
I who did not die, who am still living,
still lying in the backseat behind all my questions,
clenching and opening one small hand.
QUOTE: "Look to your health; and if you have it, praise God, and value it next to a good conscience; for health is the second blessing that we mortals are capable of; a blessing that money cannot buy." ~ Izaak Walton
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