It's mildly painful this evening to realize that it's April 16, meaning it's been 9 days since my birthday. I got sick in the afternoon on April 6 and then spent the rest of the week fighting off a fever and alternating positions between the couch and my bed. It was the kind of sick that I couldn't do much besides exist, and exisiting just for the sake of existing loses some of its charm after the first day or two. [I intermittently tried my hand at Dr. Mario on the Wii, though I couldn't focus enough to be competitive and ended up dropping 800 points in my rating at one point.]
About the best thing I can say about being sick last week was that Michelle wasn't -- though I still left her a bit overwhelmed.
As the flu left, we all decided to pass around a cold around our house, from which we're still suffering. I have vowed to give thanks every day hence that I'm not hacking up a lung, or having to listen to Michelle or one of my kids do the same. I'd like to think we'll be just about entirely on the mend by Saturday, especially now that I opted to splurge for a gallon of orange juice this evening.
Recovering physically is one thing. Over the years, though, I've noted that my chief difficulty with getting sick is that all of my good habits seem to fall by the wayside. For instance, it's been weeks since I've exercised [and I've been patting myself on the back just for walking to and from the trolley these last few days.] It's likewise been weeks since I've tried to regulate at all what I'm eating and how much. My scripture study has devolved into the few verses I hurriedly read before falling asleep, and the television or Wii easily and quickly dominate my free time. Alas, my Dr. Mario rating isn't getting any higher. And even if it was, who cares?
Tonight, I'm thinking I want my life back. [I want my hair back, too, but that's another story.] I don't think, though, that I'm strong enough to simply reclaim it tomorrow in its entirety. And that bugs me.
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