It Ain’t Easy Being Green

This past week has been an unhealthy one. First Man-wonder went down in a blaze of mucus and I had to finally shut the bedroom door on him—sealing him in bed in his own hacking hell.

Our concern was my 92-year-old mom picking up his germs and it worked. Sort of.

She didn’t pick up his cold. She developed bronchitis instead which was not a good thing at all. The illness caused her heart medications to go wonky, which in turn, made her worse. She ended up in emergency care with digoxin toxicity. It was a scary time. Especially with Mom having serious memory issues (won’t call it dementia since we haven’t had any formal testing done).

Poor Mom had a rough go of it but recuperated enough to return home a couple of days ago.

And I, in turn, stopped taking Advil, which allowed what I’d been ignoring to hit me like a sledge-hammer. I don’t believe if I threw myself off our back deck (one story high), rolled down the wet grass until I landed splat into the ankle-deep mucky creek and then ran naked and screaming like a banshee along our road, it would cause me to feel any worse . . .

It’s hard to see past the piles of used Kleenex, the over-heated house and sounds reminiscent of our inner harbour (when the seals return). It’s hard to feel nice. And I don’t. I’m pretty sure if I looked real close in the mirror, I’d see cold snake-like eyes staring back at me.

So, if you’ll excuse me, I hear the kettle whistling and I want to be alone with my latest witches’ brew —elderberry tincture, ground licorice root, sliced ginger root and loose green tea—to which I’ve added a nice hunk of raw honey just in case any sense of taste has returned.

Here’s hoping next week isn’t as green . . .


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