As I write, it’s 2am. The day my youngest son turns 5. So a big day is ahead. Yet I’m sat on the sofa, whimpering. At that point where even swallowing (enough with the jokes, thanks) is painful. My ears, neck glands and throat are in so much pain, that I’m ready for someone to cuddle me and sing Rudolph the red nosed reindeer. It’s that bad.
You know when you’re so poorly that you know it’s the night of the long knives? You know that it won’t last forever. You know that it’s temporary. But right now I’m promising Him Upstairs that if he could make me better a bit quicker I’ll volunteer at a Soup Kitchen, hoover at home more and actually cook cakes for the next school cake sale instead of buying them. It’s that bad.
I have tried to eat chips and gravy for my dinner. And failed. I then tried to eat some chocolate frozen yoghurt but I’ve failed in that as well. So it’s pretty pants.
I’ve actually called the out of hours GP. He’s on a palliative care call. And I don’t begrudge whoever it is that needs that attention and help. God bless them and their family. But I’m sat here. It’s the middle of the night. And frankly, I’m struggling. I can’t even be bothered to watch Dawsons Creek or One Tree Hill on Love Film so I know I’m struggling.
So, I just wanted to document this night. This pants, god awful night so that when I’m well again, I have something to compare it to.
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