Ill, still
Karin felt poorly enough to miss work again. Then, yesterday, she returned to the office. It’s a toss-up whether it’s more restful (a) in the office (but away from bed), or (b) in our house, in bed (but near to our lively sons).
Samuel and Daniel are still congested, but they’re healthy enough to jump up and down on us.
This morning, Karin felt so much better that she pranced into the kitchen and made pancakes.
“Don’t eat them,” she said. “They’re terrible. I used a new recipe from the Internet. It got awful reviews. I didn’t see the reviews until I’d finished cooking.”
The boys and I ate the pancakes. They were pretty bad.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
As I age, my illnesses follow a predictable pattern but take longer and longer to play themselves out at each stage. When Samuel and Daniel became ill, I had the slightest feeling in my chest that the same thing would happen to me. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation, and it took so long for other symptoms to present themselves that I hoped I’d bypassed the illness altogether. I even ate up the leftovers from the boys’ plates. (The boys aren’t immune to this bug, but I am, I thought.)
Alas, it was a vain hope, and I probably shouldn’t have eaten those leftovers.
Now it’s taking an eternity for the harshest stages of this utterly unremarkable cold to run their course. The worst of it is that all of life … all of the past … all of the foreseeable future … all of the universe, the multiverse, the pluriverse … all of these “verses” … they seem irredeemably bleak.
(Karin: “Are you over there, writing about how you’re losing the will to live?”
John-Paul: “Yes.”
Karin: “I know it’s not funny … but it’s kind of funny.”)
Samuel and Daniel are still congested, but they’re healthy enough to jump up and down on us.
This morning, Karin felt so much better that she pranced into the kitchen and made pancakes.
“Don’t eat them,” she said. “They’re terrible. I used a new recipe from the Internet. It got awful reviews. I didn’t see the reviews until I’d finished cooking.”
The boys and I ate the pancakes. They were pretty bad.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
As I age, my illnesses follow a predictable pattern but take longer and longer to play themselves out at each stage. When Samuel and Daniel became ill, I had the slightest feeling in my chest that the same thing would happen to me. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation, and it took so long for other symptoms to present themselves that I hoped I’d bypassed the illness altogether. I even ate up the leftovers from the boys’ plates. (The boys aren’t immune to this bug, but I am, I thought.)
Alas, it was a vain hope, and I probably shouldn’t have eaten those leftovers.
Now it’s taking an eternity for the harshest stages of this utterly unremarkable cold to run their course. The worst of it is that all of life … all of the past … all of the foreseeable future … all of the universe, the multiverse, the pluriverse … all of these “verses” … they seem irredeemably bleak.
(Karin: “Are you over there, writing about how you’re losing the will to live?”
John-Paul: “Yes.”
Karin: “I know it’s not funny … but it’s kind of funny.”)