It’s Monday. The weekend is over. I want a do-over.
After working non-stop for the last month or so, putting in extra hours, not taking proper lunches, I felt I was due a long weekend. So on Thursday, I notified my boss that I’d be taking Friday off. And oh man did I have plans. Lunch with a girlfriend, Christmas errands to run, shopping, and yeah, that doctor’s appointment too.
But instead, do you want to know what I did? I spent 95 per cent of the weekend in bed!
Getting sick sucks for most people, but getting sick on diabetes is like worlds colliding. It’s not just hacking up a lung here, or blowing out a grody there, my body literally shuts down. There is no way of having perfect blood sugars when sick, not even close to being perfect, they go on the most erratic roller coaster ride that no amount of insulin or sugar can withstand. And let me just say, cold crappiness plus BG crappiness equals holy crud, shoot me now crappiness! And that’s just for a cold, the “easy” sickness. When I was a kid I used to get the flu a lot, and was a good little puker, who often did not make it to the toilet in time (sorry moms) and because I couldn’t keep food or fluids down, I was often rushed to the hospital with messed up blood sugars and dried out veins itching for the fluid-filled IV.
And so on Thursday night, when I started to feel like a small marble was closing up my esophagus, you can imagine my annoyance and trepidation. I couldn’t get sick, how was that possible, I wash my hands and sanitize all the time, I treat those who are sick as though they have the plague, and bloody hell, I was taking a day off – that would just be freaking ass mean to make me sick. I tried to think positive, tried to be the glass half full girl, tried to explain it away as just a dry throat. But by Friday night, there was no more denying it. The once small marble, was now a pack of jagged edged knives going down my throat with every swallow I took.
WARNING: Graphic detail below.
Saturday morning I was coughing up blood mixed with chunky phlegm. Saturday evening, my voice was hoarse and cracking. By Sunday morning, I thought things were looking up. While I still had a sore throat, it wasn’t feeling quite as raw and sandpapery as it had the night prior, and the blood coming up was no longer there. However, I was now blowing out blood. Seriously, it was like I was half way to the ebola! I kid you not, Mario’s eyes were glued to mine, watching intently, fearfully, waiting for the blood to spurt. It did not.
And now, Monday. I took a sick day because:
a) I’m still not quite right
b) I have no idea if I’m still contagious
c) I’m not evil like the rest of them people who go to work and spread their damn germs. Jerks!
I deserve a weekend do-over!