I had my first tonsillitis of the season in October. Complete with a fever and 10 days of penicillin. Got better in about a week, as these things go. Was ok for about a week. Got my next tonsillitis. More penicillin. Was ok for about 10 days. Got tonsillitis again. It is now the beginning of January and I’ve had 50 days of penicillin since October. I am – and I kid you not – a celebrity at my doctor’s office.
And did I mention I also had the flu over Christmas? That Hubby did too? And both kids? And that Christmas came and went while we took turns to be feverish, bedridden and all-round icky-poo?
And while I’ve been so excruciatingly sick – or weak and recovering, I’ve still had to keep up with two kids of 3 and 7. Buy groceries. Do the laundry. Schlepping myself to work on fever-reducing painkillers, hissing at the kids, passing out at 8 pm.
While the rest of the world have had their fun going Gangnam Style, I’ve been going Gulag-style.
I am completely and utterly spent. I’ve got nothing. I am so close to the edge, that I cried today, driving home from work; I was listening to a Celine Dion song. Like Christopher Moltisanti in rehab, all I can do is cry out: “How the fuck did I get to this?”
I am scheduled for a tonsillectomy in two weeks. I was ready to yank them out myself but anesthesia is nice too. The thought of them cutting out bloody lumps of meat from my throat – right next to big blood vessels – seems, at this stage, appealing. Then the sores need to heal by turning into big ole’ scabs in my throat, scabs that then need to fall off before I swallow them –I gag at the thought.
They say it all hurts like a motherfucker. And yet, I yearn for it. I see it as an investment in my future.
Next winter is going to be awesome!
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