I'll admit it: I'm a terrible patient. You'd think being married to a such a good soontobe doctor, I'd be just a superb patient - you know, opposites attract and all? Nope. I'm whiny, I'm lethargic, I'm mopey and I really seem to lack that suck it up & deal gene. Yesterday I felt perfectly fine straight through 4 pm - I had taught 3 classes, I had a bunch of coaching sessions, I had even had a super hard workout with my drill sergeant co-worker. Somewhere around 5 pm, I knew I should be getting dinner started but I found that some incredible force had me glued to the sofa. I finally gathered myself and started cooking. Had there been a way to sit on the floor and stir the saucepan on the stove, I would have. By the time dinner was finished, I was growing more nauseated by the minute by the smell. At 7, I retired to the bed much to my husband's shock. By 9, I was up again and for the next 2 hours, seemingly could not decide which end of me belonged on the toliet. Nice huh? Dr. Husband declared me on quarantine (and has subsequently Cloroxed the entire house including stuff I swear I did not touch) but he also has been patiently filling up cups with ice chips and saltines and giving me that look that says "Drink more fluids, watch your DVR'ed Oprah and don't even thinkabout whining or I'll tell you about someone who deserves to whine."He's working in the ICU right now, so I'm prettttty sure he could fulfill that last part if need be.
Once upon a time, I had a blog. I chronicled a life in Spain, a heartbreak, 4 moves, a chronic illness and relationship rekindled. It's been a few years and it turns out I missed broadcasting my personal life for all the internets to see. So I'm back and bloggier than ever.