By Molly MacDonald
I have arisen from my sickbed to write this. I have the flu, it is no fun, but I’m being very brave. I did a Covid test, but it was negative, thank heavens.
Presumably, by the time you read this, I will be back to my usual bouncy self. If I’m not, you’re going to hear a lot of whining. Seamus‘s contribution to helping me is to stare soulfully at me with his big brown eyes, as if to say, “When are you going to take me for my walk?”
I have tried to explain to him that I feel crummy, and probably on my deathbed, and walking him is the last thing on my mind at the moment. He doesn’t seem to get it.
A few days ago, when we had thunder all night, I stayed up with him the whole night, picking up the pieces when he knocked over the little nightstand by my bed, trying to crawl under it to hide from the thunder. The lamp, phone, and alarm clock went flying in all different directions, and the table crashed to the ground with a resounding thud. Not a fun night.
I bring that up so you can understand why his lack of compassion for my being sick is a little annoying. However, I have forgiven him. Sort of.
This isn’t as bad as just a few years ago when we were a family of seven and all of us came down with the flu at Christmas. I’ve written about this before, but you’ll have to bear with me, because it’s very hard to be original when you feel as awful as I do.
That Christmas, my sister came from Vermont and was staying at our Mother’s. Sheila brought over some home-made chicken soup to make us feel better. I had Wade, who was about four, call her to thank her for the soup. “You’re very welcome, Wade – did you like it?”
“No.”
She should’ve quit while she was ahead.