I am over the virus I was fighting off, but I've been coping with the strep throat for about a month and a half, now. For the first three or four weeks, while I was still fighting off the hand, foot, and mouth thing as well, I would get up as usual to get the kids up, make sure Karl got dressed for school, get everyone breakfast, make Karl and Hubby lunch, get Karl brushed and out the door to catch the bus, find a movie for Alvena, and go back to bed and die until either the movie ended or Alvena needed something. At which point I'd get up, deal with it, and then fall over again.
For dinner I'd get Mike to cook up a frozen pizza for him and the kids. I didn't have any; with my sore throat, I couldn't even swallow liquids. I would have a yoghurt cup and try and choke down my meds (which at that point involved not only antibiotics, but also five different kinds of painkillers), try and choke down a mouthful or two of juice, and then head back to bed, genuinely concerned that I would/will develop kidney stones or failure from drinking so little. One of my meds (which I've been on for years) is not considered good for long-term use due to the risk of kidney failure it carries. But I should be fine so long as I drink lots. So this isn't entirely an empty worry.
I lost fifteen pounds just in that first week. No one has noticed (or, apparently, cared) that I can't eat or drink, or that I lost so much weight so abruptly. Except the dog; he comes in and checks in on me, as does Alvena. So the preschooler and the retriever care. Hubby, not so much.
Fifteen pounds off, okay, bright side, I suppose, but I'd rather not have dropped that much weight at the potential cost of my kidneys, yeah? Also, losing several pounds a day isn't healthy, especially if you can't even stay hydrated.
And I'm still fighting with the damned strep throat, so I still can eat very little and drink less (I mostly subsist on Freezies and yoghurt these days), although I am drinking a hair more than I was. Still not enough, though.
Meanwhile, Hubby used every damned dish in the place and didn't bother doing dishes or sweeping the floor once the whole time I was bed-ridden, so for about three weeks. At that point I gave up and did them my own damned self. I did ask him to help with the dishes, but he refused, citing the mess I had left the kitchen in. Which, after the last time I did the dishes before getting ill, consisted of a lot of clean dishes and five glasses and mugs, which I didn't wash because I didn't have any more room in the dish rack.
Apparently that mountain of dirty dishes was my fault, because I didn't ask him to help with them until it was really bad. Far too much to expect one person to do, and so I, the infectious sick person, should do them. And cook. And clean. And do the laundry.
And yet, when I say, "I feel like shit, I'm going upstairs for a bit," the response is, "So you're going back to bed. So nothing's going to get done. Again." And when I point out that I am, in fact, still sick, he just points out that I've been sick "for months" and he's sick of hearing about it and about how I can't do anything.
Yeah. Well, you know what I'm sick of? I'm sick of not being able to swallow. I'm sick of having muscles so weak after a month and a half in bed that, even discounting my bad hips and back and knee and arm (which I know he is also sick of hearing about, because it's been going on for over three years now and he is tired of me grunting and wincing in pain and generally making a huge production out of it--I'm hurt, WE KNOW) that it takes me literally about 30-60 seconds just to stand up from a chair. Or longer, depending on which chair I'm in and what there is to grab to haul myself upright and whether or not I need to call the dog or kid over to hang off while I do it.
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I am over the virus I was fighting off, but I've been coping with the strep throat for about a month and a half, now. For the first three or four weeks, while I was still fighting off the hand, foot, and mouth thing as well, I would get up as usual to get the kids up, make sure Karl got dressed for school, get everyone breakfast, make Karl and Hubby lunch, get Karl brushed and out the door to catch the bus, find a movie for Alvena, and go back to bed and die until either the movie ended or Alvena needed something. At which point I'd get up, deal with it, and then fall over again.
For dinner I'd get Mike to cook up a frozen pizza for him and the kids. I didn't have any; with my sore throat, I couldn't even swallow liquids. I would have a yoghurt cup and try and choke down my meds (which at that point involved not only antibiotics, but also five different kinds of painkillers), try and choke down a mouthful or two of juice, and then head back to bed, genuinely concerned that I would/will develop kidney stones or failure from drinking so little. One of my meds (which I've been on for years) is not considered good for long-term use due to the risk of kidney failure it carries. But I should be fine so long as I drink lots. So this isn't entirely an empty worry.
I lost fifteen pounds just in that first week. No one has noticed (or, apparently, cared) that I can't eat or drink, or that I lost so much weight so abruptly. Except the dog; he comes in and checks in on me, as does Alvena. So the preschooler and the retriever care. Hubby, not so much.
Fifteen pounds off, okay, bright side, I suppose, but I'd rather not have dropped that much weight at the potential cost of my kidneys, yeah? Also, losing several pounds a day isn't healthy, especially if you can't even stay hydrated.
And I'm still fighting with the damned strep throat, so I still can eat very little and drink less (I mostly subsist on Freezies and yoghurt these days), although I am drinking a hair more than I was. Still not enough, though.
Meanwhile, Hubby used every damned dish in the place and didn't bother doing dishes or sweeping the floor once the whole time I was bed-ridden, so for about three weeks. At that point I gave up and did them my own damned self. I did ask him to help with the dishes, but he refused, citing the mess I had left the kitchen in. Which, after the last time I did the dishes before getting ill, consisted of a lot of clean dishes and five glasses and mugs, which I didn't wash because I didn't have any more room in the dish rack.
Apparently that mountain of dirty dishes was my fault, because I didn't ask him to help with them until it was really bad. Far too much to expect one person to do, and so I, the infectious sick person, should do them. And cook. And clean. And do the laundry.
And yet, when I say, "I feel like shit, I'm going upstairs for a bit," the response is, "So you're going back to bed. So nothing's going to get done. Again." And when I point out that I am, in fact, still sick, he just points out that I've been sick "for months" and he's sick of hearing about it and about how I can't do anything.
Yeah. Well, you know what I'm sick of? I'm sick of not being able to swallow. I'm sick of having muscles so weak after a month and a half in bed that, even discounting my bad hips and back and knee and arm (which I know he is also sick of hearing about, because it's been going on for over three years now and he is tired of me grunting and wincing in pain and generally making a huge production out of it--I'm hurt, WE KNOW) that it takes me literally about 30-60 seconds just to stand up from a chair. Or longer, depending on which chair I'm in and what there is to grab to haul myself upright and whether or not I need to call the dog or kid over to hang off while I do it.
(Continued)