Sick Of Myself, Part 3
I’ve woken up to a throat full of cotton balls and thumbtacks every morning for a week now. To say that the sensation of choking on my own tongue is getting old is, well, the understatement of the year.
Yes, it’s true, I’m still sick. I’ve have spent six days trapped in my apartment, escaping only twice for family dinners (Thanksgiving turkey is outstanding when you can’t swallow). I walk upstairs and check email, then walk downstairs to watch TV. I walk upstairs to gargle with salt water, then walk downstairs to force down two tablespoons of Tylenol Cold. I boil water to keep the air humid, then drink Gatorade to keep hydrated. I eat can after can of soup, take vitamins and aspirin and ibuprofin, and run a dishwasher full of bowls and spoons every night.
I’m over it. My body, however, is apprently not.
I have watched two movies (“The Sting,” “The Lords Of Discipline”), both great. I have read two books (“Chuck Klosterman’s “IV” and Phillip Lopate’s “Waterfront”), both ok. And I have recorded two songs (“How To Be Alone” and “Wonderwall”), both of which should probably never have seen the light of day.
Otherwise, I have paced around and around this cell block of an apartment and waited for a sign that I am feeling better. Judging by the fever I’m currently running (despite the screen door being wide open), that sign remains elusive.
“Why then,” you ask, “Don’t you go to the doctor?”
In short, I will on Monday. Last week, though, it seemed like I was getting better — in small incriments, but still. Tuesday morning was the worst. I sat in the steamy shower before sunrise wishing I were dead. So Wednesday was an improvement. Of course, Thursday was out of the question (being a holiday and all). Ditto Friday. So here I am.
This very week for the last four years, I have been on tour. This year? I’m stuck in my apartment, feeling crappy, and going crazy. Taken with my bum knee, I’m beginning to wonder if this is how it all starts to fall apart.
Obviously, I’m not very happy. I’d really like to go for a run, or go to a movie, or go to the park with my nephews. Heck, I’d rather go grocery shopping. Anything. But here I am, sitting, resting, waiting. I’m not sure what it all means, or why on earth I’ve been stuck here for almost a week. I’m not sure I’m getting anything out of it, or getting stronger, or anything. Just crankier, and crazier.
Time for my medicine.