Sleep

I don't get sick very often. And when I do, it's usually a case of plowing through a few days of annoying sniffles, sneezes and coughs. I keep moving so as to prevent the mucus from pooling in my brain.

Tuesday was different.

For the first time I can remember, I cared only to sleep. Dear Steve was with me all day, plying me with tea, soup, offers to go get anything I could possibly imagine wanting. Of course, all I wanted to do was go back to sleep. I was miserably sick, but strangely contented.

You see, sleep and I are normally uneasy allies. I need sleep but would just as soon not take the time. I give up consciousness grudgingly, and my sleep is troubled by dreams about the things I've left undone during my chaotic waking hours. Vague guilt puts an end to my slumbers at daybreak. Taking any sort of nap messes up my whole day, and I wake up in a state of sheer horror that lasts about 20 seconds.

On Tuesday, all that changed. I slept all day. Oh, I'd get up, go to the bathroom, pick up an easy murder mystery to read for the five minutes before I fell back into blissful sleep. Having Steve there, urging me to just sleep, was so comforting. It gave me some insight into his relationship to sleep, which is much closer to what I was experiencing on Tuesday. It was completely guiltless.

Wednesday morning I had to go do some office work for Chuck. Because his bookkeeping situation was in flux, there was quite a bit for me to get up to speed on. By this time I was running a temperature and my whole body was sore to the touch. I threw in the towel after an hour and a half and came back home to my bed and more blissful unconsciousness.

At about 2:00 p.m. I woke up. Finished the mystery. Got up and wandered around the house, coughing. Surveyed the dirty dishes, filthy floors and piles of unfinished paper work. Sighed. Fixed some coffee.

Yes, the era of bliss was over. I was getting better.