I've been sick for eight days now. I've also been going through some female stuff and getting dizzy a lot lately. We thought I might be pregnant, although that is impossible. Not impossible like resurrection, but impossible like trying to bake cupcakes and remembering you're out of eggs. After we ruled that out (whew), we thought it might be the flu. We're half right, the doctor gave me some antibiotics, antihistamines and steroids and told me to stay home for two days. I have bronchitis, which is a relief. Eight days in mom years is like being diagnosed with a terminal disease. Lord knows, I'm more like my mom than I want to admit. My sister and I laugh about it a lot. That awkward, clearing your throat, fake laugh when one of us stops real quick because it's scary how true it is.
I have an appointment with my gynecologist next week to unravel the mystery of my ladypipes. The girls have been real nice to me since I got sick. It's so funny how kids get all cuddly when you're sick. Like they finally realize you might not be around forever. I've been feeling like that about my dad lately, but that's better saved for when I can actually write about it without feeling like I've been hit by a truck.
That was Monday, my trip to the clinic, and I didn't take my doctor's advice. Big surprise. So naturally, here I am on Thursday after a horrific night of coughing fits and vomiting, blogging about it as if you asked. In case you wondered though, it sucks to be sick. Sick leave is wasted on the ill.