Hubby took our oldest two kids with him to North Carolina to sell our extra Sea Doo, leaving me at home with the youngest two. Boy, did I have exciting plans of what I was going to do today.
Paint stripes in girls' room.
Clean kitchen and finish laundry.
Sew curtains for girls' bedroom window.
Organize stuff in exercise/play room so I would have somewhere to put the stuff on the pool table.
Crit four chpts for my CPs and three chpts for my Romance Diva mentee.
Add some neat stuff to my blog.
Write a new bi-monthly article for Romance Divas.
So far, in the hour since hubby left, I've added two new authors to my links, fed the kids breakfast, and changed a poopy diaper. I'm not feeling too optimistic about the rest of my plans. Oh well, I do have an idea for my RD article. Guess I'll go write that.
I’m a pathetic sick person. No, really, I am. Sit down, I’m not gonna listen to any lectures on positive self-esteem. Divas, it’s time we all just fess up to our faults. Well, maybe not all of them. How about half? I’m good with half.
I AM pathetic when I’m sick.
Recently, I woke up with a tingle in my throat and a runny nose. But the end of the day, my head felt like it was stuck in the my washing machine’s spin cycle, every body part minus my toes ached, and my nose...for the sake of decency I’ll spare a concrete visual.
Being the ever optimist, I knew with a little over-the-counter medication and a lot of orange juice, I’d feel better.
Pathetic me guzzled the pills and OD on OJ. Alas, my mind couldn’t escape the mental fog. Since I had three more entries to judge for our “We All Win” contest, I tried to judge them. Let’s just say I developed a new strain of commaconjunctivitus that just isn’t considerate to pass along.
Then began the coughing. Things—inhumane things—wracked free from the confines of my throat. Sometime mid-week, I woke up in the middle of the night with the need to hurl. Having experienced morning sickness too many times, I’ve developed an odd aversion to vomiting, so I ran my hands under cold water and splashed my face. The need to vomit left, but then came the coughing. A wise person would probably be a bit wary of the red spots her spit. I’m not that wise.
Don’t worry, I didn't have pneumonia. I think I coughed and rasped my throat so much that I broke a small blood vessel. Plus it was a one-time occurrence. Oh, FYI, a person can take two days’ worth of 04/04-expired Tylenol Sinus and still live. Isn’t that nice to know? It’s amazing the things you learn when you’re sick.
Anyway, I bought a new box of Sudafed. Cute little red pills. Soon I’d improve. By Sunday, I still hadn’t.
When I realize I was too BLAH to even stop the kids from smacking each other around and that I ached too much to chase the baby down to put a diaper on her so she wouldn’t pee again on the floor, I knew my optimism for healing was misplaced optimism. I couldn’t solve my own sickness. Gulp. Yes, my pride had to admit I needed help.
So off to Patient First I flew. Actually, I drove. I could have walked because the clinic is about a ½ mile from my house, but I’m just too lazy to walk that far. Plus I was sick. No sane person would ask a sick person to exert THAT much physical effort. Pu-leeez.
I had an upper respiratory tract infection, URTI for short. That was me, Gina, the hurtie with the URTI. This time I didn’t get my usual doctor. This new guy...let’s just say he picked the right specialty—family practice. No woman would want Mr. Romance to give her a Pap smear or check to see how much she’s dilated and effaced. Of course, a breast exam wouldn’t have been bad. Now I digress. He gave me two bottles of pills: an antibiotic and something to relieve my congestion.
On day two of the healing phase, my cough wasn’t gone. My nose was still a little stuffy. But I could THINK. Wow, you don’t know how precious the power of thinking is until you lose it.
I bet you’re wondering where I’m going with this. See, prior to seeing the doctor, I would be wondering along with you. I can now see the light.
I’m a pathetic sick person because I wait until I’m miserable, on death’s door, before I go to the doctor. Why do I wait? Because I think I can solve my sickness on my own. Hello, I was taking year-old expired medication. Do you really think I’m capable of solving my own problems? Realistically, I can...sometimes. But I can’t all the time.
Neither can you.
Every person goes through trials and tribulations. The easy solution is to take Job’s wife’s advice and “curse God and die.” Weakness isn’t admitting you need help. Weakness is suffering when someone or something is available to help you if you’d just ask.
What are you going through? Do you struggle with balancing family and/or job responsibilities with your desired time to write? Do you batter envy and frustration over other people’s writing successes or writing level? Do you feel like you’re the only person in the world without a critique partner or that no one would want you for a crit partner? Or maybe it’s smaller issues like writing a syno, learning when to use a semi-colon, or what a woman wore in 1492.
Strength isn’t suffering through what you’re experiencing. Strength is admitting your burdens, struggles, and failure and accepting the available help.