I’ve been sick for nearly three weeks. For two weeks, I coughed and sputtered and tried to pretend nothing was wrong. My body nagged me, but I didn’t listen. At first, it whispered, “Hey, kiddo, slow down and take it easy.” In ensuing days it began to chant, “You’d better watch it -- or else!”
I didn’t listen.
I worked long hours, burned the candle at both ends, and waved off the thought of taking the antibiotic my doctor prescribed. I traveled two hours to climb down into a canyon that was covered in knee deep snow, got soaking wet, and made the decision to take the “easy” way out, which landed me in more knee deep snow. A couple of miles and hours later, I – and the cold, exhausted family members who accompanied me – made it back to the safety of the main road. In less than an hour my left lung hurt with the simple, yet necessary, act of breathing.
I still didn’t take the antibiotic.
My body yelled, “What are you, stupid?”
Just shy of a week after that, six days ago, my fever shot out of the ceiling and I could barely move, breathe, swallow walk, you name it...
I finally took the antibiotic.
Bedridden for almost four days, I started to wonder why I was so stubborn; I’m still working on finding the answer. What I did discover is that my body is wise and, especially at my age, I need to hearken to its counsel. I also found out I have dust bunnies the size of Texas under my bed – this as I crawled to the bathroom.
Today, I am finally regaining my sense of smell and I can walk up and down the stairs unaided by my nine-year-old. I can also taste food again and I’m making my way through a frozen pizza as I catch up on emails and favorite blogs. Even if its more cluttered and dusty than I left it a week ago, my favorite spot on the kitchen floor still catches golden rays of sunlight and the swaying shadows of my willow trees.
My dogs are happy to see me and eager for a run.