I hate taking antibiotics. It makes me feel vaguely guilty - as though, by getting sick, I've somehow let myself down. Asking my doctor for a prescription is like an admission of defeat.
|The green-and-white flag of surrender.|
The post went drearily on from there, to talk about how draggy I've been feeling, how far behind I am on blogging and crocheting and blog-reading, the guilt of not having posted since Sunday, etcetera, etcetera.
Good thing I didn't click that "Publish" button.
Here is the new opening paragraph, as written Thursday evening:
I can't say I enjoy taking antibiotics, but I'm so very grateful they're available. It's really quite amazing what those little tablets can do. Gone are the wearisome weeks of fatigue and lassitude; just two doses in and I feel like a new woman.
Isn't that a much better beginning for a post? :)
Being under the weather has made me think about how differently we all respond to minor illnesses.
For example: When I'm ill, I lose interest in pretty much everything. If I had my druthers, I'd curl up in bed and sleep, shutting out the world until I felt better again. In the intervals of sleep, I'd lie there and think of nothing, or read a comfortable book. And drink a lot of tea. Tea-drinking must be the human equivalent of licking wounds - or my equivalent anyway.
Of course I don't give way to these desires (unless I have something serious like influenza). Life must go on and woman's continual work be done. But certain things do fall by the wayside: blogging, blog-reading, crochet, crafts, conversation in the home. My creativity goes into a temporary coma, and I tend to withdraw into myself. I suppose you could call it suffering in silence. (Not a noble silence - just the silence of someone who has temporarily run out of things to say.)
Mr. M, on the other hand, acts as though he's dying whenever he gets so much as a cold. With many a loud groan does he attest to his misery, and - never mind. 'Nuff said. (I dare not be more explicit than this. Though he doesn't read the blog, you never know when he may decide to start.) I suspect his response to illness is similar to that of most men.
How do you respond to mild illness? Are you the stalwart type who soldiers through, cheery to the last, refusing to give in? (And how I admire you if you are.)
Or do you long to curl up and let the illness have its way until things get better again?
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