Remember the pneumonia thing? Well, I wasn’t having any sort of real issue with it until Saturday night when my body said, “Nope, we’re going to spike another fever, go dizzy and nauseous, and feel all around completely miserable.” I keep spiking fevers in the evening, getting hella dizzy and nauseous overnight, and being somewhat okay during the day.
This, of course, means that I’m calling in sick to work, which has led to a whole other sort of stress. As with most companies, we get a set number of paid sick days and everything after that is unpaid. I have no idea how unpaid sick days work for people on salary, but I don’t want to find out. At the same time, my body isn’t going to say, “Oh, been sick for X days, time to be well again!” Then there’s the notion of sick days being counted as “occurrences,” also known as “things which could be used against you if we decide to be picky about your attendance.” That’s yet another stressor on top of trying to work through the actual illness.
Good thing about writing — the sick days may not be paid, but no one’s going to use them against you.
My good friend has demanded I stay in bed and not move, which is fine except the water is downstairs and I’m upstairs. I’m a terrible patient, because as soon as I feel better, I want to be doing things. There’s a good chance I won’t settle down unless hospitalized, and even then, I’d say it’s 50/50.
That’s where I am today. Writing is sluggish, breathing still hurts, but other than that, I’m alive. My attitude’s been pretty good, I think. I’ve made sure to stay on top of my lamotrigine alongside the rest of the crap I’m taking. (I might stay still better if I let myself fall into catatonic depression.) (<—That’s a terrible idea.)
I might find sleeping meds, or I might continue writing for awhile. Patrick just broke into a house and he’s rather beside himself over the whole thing.