This is a self-pity post. I’ve had a cold or the flu for the last week, and I’ve been miserable. If the news reports of the flu epidemic are true, then many other people out there are sick also, and many are sicker than I am. But at the moment, I’m pitying myself, not others.
I got my flu shot, so I shouldn’t be sick. I breezed through Christmas without any exposure (that I knew of) to illness.
But on New Year’s Eve I awoke with a scratchy throat. For the next two days, I didn’t feel well, but I didn’t think it was too bad. I kept up with my normal activities, even going to the gym on Tuesday. I took some cold medicine to help me sleep, but I figured the flu shot would do its thing and I would improve quickly.
Then Wednesday hit. Congestion. Coughing. Fatigue. The proverbial freight train slammed into my body, and I didn’t want to move.
Ditto Thursday. And Friday, though Friday was a little better than Thursday. And Saturday a little better still.
Nevertheless, since my gym visit Tuesday, I haven’t left the house, and I don’t plan to until a meeting scheduled this coming Tuesday.
It has been a long time since I was sick enough to decide to cancel all non-home-based activities for a week.
Of course, while I was working, I generally couldn’t cancel everything. I never took a full week off for illness in twenty-seven years of corporate life. I don’t think I ever took more than two days. There were too many bosses and judges putting meetings on my calendar and imposing non-negotiable deadlines, too many people requiring input and output from me. Too much peer pressure to keep going strong even after the freight train struck.
So I think of taking sick days as a luxury. As a self-employed writer and community volunteer, I can decide for myself whether my presence at meetings is necessary or whether the risk of infecting others outweighs the contributions I could bring to a discussion. I can be self-pitying, and no one can chastise me.
But the ability to take sick days also means I’m expendable. No one relies on me for anything that can’t be postponed. Even my husband could manage to feed himself if I didn’t fix dinner (though I have been doing that through my illness).
I’m fortunate that I am currently at a point in my writing project that takes very little creativity. I’m doing a final polish on Forever Mine, which doesn’t require much more than the ability to spot typos. I’m pretty good at that, and even my fog-filled brain can handle that mindless activity.
Still, I wonder if I will regret this lost week, if it will set the tone for the coming year. And, in my self-pitying mode, I wonder who besides myself would care if I don’t meet my self-imposed goals.
When have you wallowed in self-pity? What got you out of it?