Some (most?) days just don’t turn out the way you expect. All week I’ve anticipated today. My chance to regain some strength. A perfectly restful, stay-at-home-all-day type of Saturday. After two weekends away, and long weekdays at work, I needed it.
Especially this weekend. I’ve been battling a cold – or so I thought – for over a week. I felt crummy every single day, coughed my lungs out every single night, but still, I continued to trudge off to work. (OK, so I came home early a couple of days, but I still got up in the dark, got dressed, and left home at 7:15 each morning.) Why? I’m not sure. I mean, I know the world won’t stop if I don’t sit at my desk to answer phones. Administrative assistants are not exactly emergency room doctors.
When co-workers – especially the ones who infected me – come to work sick, it irritates me to no end. And yet, when it came down to calling in sick because I had a cold, well, I felt like a wimp if I did that. It’s only a cold. So I limped along.
Last night, however, I coughed harder and longer than I ever have before. I knew I had to change my plans and spend my Saturday morning in the clinic with all the other sick people. And I found out I have bronchitis. A bad case, the doctor said. He chided me for letting it go so long. (But . . . don’t colds last 7-10 days? And in Europe, the doctors laughed at Americans who take antibiotics so often they become immune to them.)
When I opened the door to leave for the clinic, this is the sight that greeted me.
Today did not prove to be the restful day I hoped. My husband sawed tree limbs all day. And I coughed. And took my antibiotics. But don’t tell the European doctors.