I couldn't call Rogers today, like I'd hoped; I couldn't call anyone. I didn't even get out for my walk, which is starting to have the appeal of a real activity, despite how mildly entertaining it is, and how despicably cold. (Ok, I don't mind the cold that much. Only when I walk against the wind.) I haven't done anything, really, as it turns out my supposedly "getting better" sore throat was actually toying with me. It was the eye, not the end, of the hurricane. So today the fever is back, and I keep feeling like I'm choking because my throat's so sore it doesn't want to swallow anything. And I'm queasy and achy, and sometimes the pain decides to burn right through my throat into my ears which just makes for an altogether good time. The only benefit I can see in all of this is that it sets a spectacular stage for self-pity, and that's a version of what the doctor wanted me to feel, that I haven't yet. I've come closer, feeling so sad about my illness again, feeling so sad about home- trying not to isolate from my mom when I most need someone here to hold me because she's a good someone even if she's not they. Good grammar sounds so wrong sometimes.
I'm sick of popsicles and soup, and I'm out of stamps and cannot mail my letter. My letter to Dave. Even if I could leave my bed and go fight the wintry chill. So I'm officially ready to mope, and I'm hoping that I can keep the tears under the radar of mi madre. I don't know why I'm hoping that. She'd understand of course. I guess right now it just want to be alone with it. My love, my grief, my tears.
To the extent that I ever want to be alone with anything, that is. Please, please let this be better Friday; I don't want to miss the doctor, and I don't want to make him sick again. Plus, I'm not enjoying it so much as one might think. I think I could actually have enough excitement even if it went away completely. Shocking, I know. Oy. I wish I could package it up and send it to someone who needs a few days off of school. It's so wasted here.
~m