And then, I got very sick.
I mean, I got the flu, but I got a bad case of the flu — bad enough that I was basically delirious for a day or so, with a fever spiking the entire time, and my brain refusing to finish thoughts that it started because it was so much easier to get distracted by cartoon elephants which I objectively knew were not inside my brain, but it certainly seemed like it at the time. (Honestly, I wish I was joking; I am not.)
It was one of those things that, when you’re right in the middle of the worst of it, you just kind of take it because, really, what’s the alternative? I remember small parts from the worst day, whether it was the pride I took in calling out sick almost as soon as I woke up because I was already feeling out of it — given that I could barely manage a full work day when I did return, days later, it was a good call, but that kind of maybe I should make the smart choice for myself and not just assume I can handle anything if I try hard enough thinking does not come naturally; I felt as if I’d leveled up in self-care terms — or not being entirely sure if I was awake or asleep at one point, but knowing with supreme conviction that if I moved even an inch, I would be pounced upon by any one of a number of animals who were surrounding me on the bed at that moment, as if they could somehow keep me from getting worse. Who knows, maybe they did.
Just two days earlier, I’d been talking to a friend about how bad everything had been in the past few weeks to that point, leading up to the death of Gus after more than 16 years. “At least it can’t get worse,” I joked, and then immediately wished I could take it back, because even by saying that, I felt as if I was inviting some future calamity I could not foresee. Lying in bed, sweating and incoherent and wondering if the next cough would bring up phlegm or make me shit myself, the closest thing I came to thinking clearly was telling myself, see? This is why you should never tempt fate.