In sickness and in health

As I’ve mentioned to my friends, I don’t get sick. I get injuries, usually from doing something that the logical side of my brain tells me I shouldn’t be doing, only to be drowned out by the stubborn, eight-year-old side of my personality whispering, “Go ahead, do it!! What’s the worst that can happen?” I also get ailments, most of which are the lingering results of having listened to said eight-year-old inner voice. But getting sick from the garden-variety viruses that creep upon the Earth? Not so much.

Until last week, anyway, when I was hit with the viral version of a freight train. One day I’m making plans for a romantic dinner to celebrate my (then) upcoming anniversary. The next, I’m making mental notes about which cat figurines go to which person in the event of my nearly certain demise. That’s how it works when a non-sickie like me finds myself besieged with illness --- I extrapolate it to its natural, if unrealistic, end.

Weebles embraced my incapacitated state as a personal holiday for hers truly. No longer was she alone in the bedroom, dozing peacefully, far from the rest of the four-footed co-inhabitants. She had herself a genuine slumber party going on around the clock with her favorite mom in the world. Weebs stayed in the bed every minute I was there. If I went to the bathroom, she was right there with me, making sure I was coming back to the bedroom for more downtime. To her, my being sick meant she got me all to herself and if she had to put up with a little coughing, sneezing and whining, she considered it well worth the price of admission.

Darby, having never been exposed to “sick mom” in his nearly six years on the planet, had no idea what to make of me or the situation at hand, so in his usual Doodlebug fashion, he winged it. He tried really, really hard to play the doting, sympathetic dog I’ve read so much about in other people’s accounts of dogs and family illnesses. He hopped on the bed and tried to convey something approaching sympathy for me…until it got too far past his breakfast time and I was abandoned for the joy and wonder of Stella & Chewy’s.

Once sated, the Doodle reappeared in the quarantine area, choosing to hang by the door, apparently “guarding” me from whatever hell-booger might find its way up the hall to my room. Turns out that got boring fast, so Darby switched to Plan B and put a little scratch behind his ear, just enough to make sure his tags jangled. Beyond keeping him identified and legal, the Doodle’s tags serve as his way of telling me when he needs out, should nature call outside of normal hours, and he knows that being overt with them is usually a sure-fire way to get me out of bed.

He was right. After fifteen minutes of “ching-ching-ching” tag audio-torture bursts, I got up. For a bit, anyway.

Several days later, I’ve finally recovered to the point where I can check back in with you all, share tales of things that crossed my mind while reclined in my sick bed and find out what’s been happening in your world. It’s good to be back with you.