I was raised in an on again-off again Christian home.
What I mean by that is, I can very vividly remember going to church with my mom and her first husband and I can just as vividly remember staying home to sleep in and watch football. We were raised with good morals, but we were certainly not strict church goers or Bible readers. My dad’s family is Catholic. Most don’t attend regular Mass, but they’re quick to put the fear of the Pope into us kids. Again, not strict, but good morals.
As a curious child, I was unable to take the Bible stories at face value. I always wanted to know how or why or what about? As a young adult, my curiosity didn’t waver.
I tell you all that to tell you this:
I’m not devout in any one “thing” (except chocolate because, obviously). Instead, I simply say I believe. Not in organized religion, not in blind devotion, but I believe. I believe there is a higher power at work. Karma, the Universe, God, Allah, Jehovah, call it what you will. There is a common thread of fate in the world that is woven throughout us all. I won’t get all preachy on you and tell you why I believe what I believe and muddle you down with explanations and history and Oh Em Gee moments. That’s not what this is about.
What this IS about is the Universe (or whatever name you choose) has just reminded me to pay attention and I thought I would share it with you. For a chuckle or a wry smile or just because.
Yesterday I gave in and went to the doctor. The cold from hell hasn’t lifted and has instead decided to take up residence in my chest. All day Monday, I half-joked that I had an elephant on my chest that was making it difficult to breath. I even named him George. George got real comfy Monday night and consequently, I didn’t sleep well or much at all. Yesterday, as the boyfriend kissed me goodbye on his way to work, I could see the worry in his eyes. So I called the doctor. They fit me in yesterday afternoon and I trudged my way there.
Turns out, it’s a good thing I gave in. The doctor poked and prodded my face, chest, throat. Then he sat back and looked at me with a smirk. “You’ve got a pretty nasty sinus infection, there.”
Gee, thanks Doc.
He went on to tell me that I have Walking Pneumonia.
He faxed over a prescription for heavy duty antibiotics to my pharmacy and strictly ordered me to go home and REST.
I had barely made it in the door when his nurse called to remind me about a change in my shot schedule. She also commanded REST. She also said I needed to call my rheumatologist to inform them of the medication change. I did. And guess what they said? REST.
Feeling slightly chagrined, I changed into jammies and curled up with my blanket. My nice evening with the boyfriend to celebrate our anniversary was now reduced to him waiting on me. I was less than thrilled. It’s not that he didn’t make a yummy dinner, he did. It’s not that we didn’t have a good time, we did. We watched The Voice (We’re long-time fans and hooked!) and then played a little Mario Kart. It was lovely.
But I struggle with having my independence taken away. I despise having decisions about my life made for me. It’s a common complaint with those of us struggling with chronic illness. Too often, what we want is superseded by what our disease will let us do.
Today, once again, the boyfriend kissed me as he headed off to work. Along with his kiss, he reminded me to REST. I nodded and smiled and promised to behave. And I had every intention to. I settled into my trusty recliner and set my mind to working online. When I got restless, I shuffled out to the mailbox and checked mail.
I was surprised by a lovely package from my sister from another mister and enjoyed a cheer in my day. I was feeling fairly good, all things considered, so I decided to pick up the kitchen a bit. This is the point where the Universe decided to remind me, ever so gently, that I was supposed to be resting.
At least I was able to get most of the dishes done before handily slicing my thumb open on my chef’s knife.