Fevered Ramblings on a Sunday Musing

Actually, according to my thermometer, I don't have a fever. But I feel like I do. Or maybe I feel like I should, because the rest of me feels so crummy and rotten and sore and runny.

Yes folks, Flu, whom I have not seen for years, has paid a visit. He's (of course Flu is a "he") a house guest I would love to throw out on his ass in the slush-covered streets of Laramie. Perhaps the presence of the slush and snow and cold and grayness prompted Flu's visit ... I dunno. What I DO know is this: Combinations of various over-the-counter drugs have a wonderful numbing effect and allow me to sleep fairly comfortably for hours on end, which is really all I'd prefer to do when I feel this rotten. The body aches alone are maddening, like pain has taken on the form of fingers, running up and down my back, wrapping around my ribs, tingling along my legs, throbbing in my head. All of me was a constant, never-ceasing ache. When I'm awake, I'm crusing all eight channels that my antannae receives, drinking tea and finishing off "Till We Have Faces." The book can be kind of depressing, and I'm not sure it's the best choice for sick day reading, but since I'd already started it, I figured I might as well finish it. Parts of it make my heart ache, adding to the other aches.

Being sick depresses me. I'm alone, in bed, telling people to stay away because Heaven knows they don't want what I have, and I don't want to give it to them ... but it's lonely. Maybe that's another reason that I like to sleep when I'm sick ... if I'm asleep, I don't know that I'm alone.

A column that used to read with some regularity, written for Christian singles by others of similar status, recently polled its readers about what they do when they're sick. Because when you have a significant other, there's someone there to make the run to Wal-Mart for you, to buy the TheraFlu, to fix the chicken noodle soup for you, to give you a back rub, to just hold you ... but when you're single, those things -- except the back rub and the holding -- are left on your own shoulders. I had a bit of foresight this year and stocked up on Campbell's ... but I still had to make a run to Wal-Mart last night after I'd slept all afternoon and couldn't sleep anymore and realized that I was out of cough drops and needed TheraFlu.

I wanted my mommy right about then, but she'd left earlier in the day to go back to Gillette with Dad. I wanted to be back at home -- the old house on Granite -- to be in my old bed, the lights off in my room, but the lights in the living room and the kitchen bringing a comforting, orange glow to my door, which would be open a little bit; to hear the muffled sounds of the television, to hear my mom talking to whoever was in the kitchen or on the phone while I drifted in and out of sleep, to feel her hands feeling my forehead or rubbing my back, making sure I had tissues and water and everything else that I needed ... there was comfort and reassurance, even when I was sick, back then ...

So, that's been my weekend. I was still in the "early" stages of it yesterday, so I doped up on Dayquil and went to the game (which was amazing) and spent the rest of the weekend in bed.

The Game

There's really nothing left to say. The Cowgirls won, and the atmosphere in the Arena-Auditorium was beyond electric; it was beyond magical ... even for someone who's been deemed a fairweather fan, along with rougly 10,000 other people ... it was a day that made this city, this state, this girl proud. Go Cowgirls.