Roses are Red, Nyquil is Blue

November 06, 2006 | Category: In My Life

I'm still sick.

I'm still sick.

I'm still SICK.

grumble.

Flashes of wellness taunt me. Tease me. Like a 3rd grader on the playground hogging the hopscotch squares.

Oh, I hate being sick.

Yes, I understand the irony.

I've drank about eleventy gallons of Gatorade. I'm peeing green. My nose glows like you-know-who and let's be clear, I bark like a seal - not a dog.

Where's my Nyquil?

Yesterday I drove home from Indiana. Still don't remember much of the stay. The drive home was coughing and staring at the lights ahead of me.

"Dee," I said, gasped, on my Bluetooth. "I can't talk, everytime I try I end up hacking up a lung. But I'm zoned, with 50 miles to home. Say something. Say anything. Don't stop."

If she'd had 'In Your Eyes' at the ready, she'd've blasted it into the phone. Instead, she hummed it at me.

This? Is why I love that woman.

Meanwhile, she's reading recipes at me while I putter through construction. Bear's out like a light in back and it's all I can do not to pull into a McDonald's parking lot and climb back there with him for a nap.

Hack. Wheeze.

Arrive home and beg CD for Nyquil. Need Nyquil. And a brandy chaser. With honey and hot lemon juice. It all goes down fine and I feel alive for about 30 minutes, mellow and myself again.

Then I get a blessed 5 hours sleep before I cough myself out of my dreams, off the bed, and land face-down on the floor. Mano y mano with a dust bunny named Ralph who was looking a little frisky about having me in his territory.

Holy shit, do I need to clean.

Hack. Hack. Shiver.

It's been a long few days. Blurry, with moments of jello. And sanity. Aha, all better. An hour later? Not so much.

CD stayed home today so I could rest. Turned a corner, hurray. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Or maybe that's an oncoming train?

My tongue raw from sucking on drops. But the coughing attacks linger. With a vengeance. Like the everlasting John McLane, they still hammer me long after they should be dead. Without warning, they shake me so bad that I have to press my breasts back into place; I'm a Ruben before, and a Picasso after.

Now it is night, and time for Nyquil. I need another 5 hours. Maybe 6.

But someone has put away my Nyquil. I need my Nyquil.

Give me back my Nyquil.

Please.

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