Crawling from the wreckage
I do not mind spending fourteen days hacking-while-groping-for-a-kleenex.
I do not mind wrestling with a virus, which presumably doesn’t respond to anti-bacterial medication.
I believe in wearing it down.
I do mind the uncertainty accompanying this long-lived bug. The possibility that it will decide to live here forever. This is the closest I can come to imagining what “cancer” is for other people (since my case seemed to flit in and back out of my life). Something that hurts, and won’t promise to go away.
So I try to be stoic.
But true stoics don’t include a nauseating down-the-gullet selfie, in hopes some M.D. will say:
“That’s consumption!”, thereby validating my oh-so-fleeting case of hypochondria.
Normally, I suffer, rather, I BENEFIT from the opposite of hypochondria.
For fifty three years, I’ve been in the best health of my life, never felt more fit, and it’s just a temporary inconvenience that I sound like a hairball-heaving feline.
This sort of belief stood me in great stead at races, where a veritable sick house convened at the starting line. All around me complained the sick and the near-dead, performing the ritual ‘laying on of the excuses’. Sciatica was particularly contagious one season. There was always the flu. There was overtraining evident but no one admitted that one. Even plague came up.
My favorite line (other than “ladies, start your periods”) was: “I’m so well-rested!”
Twas true. My “training” consisted of reading, eating, typing, and lolling in between weekends.
How in the world did I get away with this?
(Shhh! Inherited physique + superior bicycle! Don’t tell!)
Folks still never mention how peppy they feel these days (I indulge in one per year, maybe not a big enough sample).
In fact, the pale and the halt really are showing up at the line. They’re downright green-looking, unwell. Not felled by a pathogen, merely unmade by merrymaking. Balancing out all that overhealthy riding and breathing good fresh air.
I have yet to get to the bottom of this mystery.