The Only Cure is More Cowbell

The Juggernaut is asleep next to me, fighting off something with a temp of 101. He’s a solid, healthy little kid, so when he has a fever, it just knocks the wind out of his sails. It’s the only time he ever wants to sleep in the bed with me, so as much as I hate that my little bug isn’t feeling well, I do relish listening to him breathe his raspy little breaths. Who am I kidding? This kid is snoring like a buzz saw. Still, I made him and it’s bloody precious. 

I am no roob to fever. I have a low grade fever almost every day. I know it my body trying to fight itself, but it is exhausting. I think my Tylenol to blood ratio maybe equal – I’m either taking it for pain or fever. Or both. Those are the bad days. I’m not writing about this to complain or have anyone feel sorry for me – quite the contrary. I’m writing this to come to terms with my chronic illness. Even though I was diagnosed a few years ago, I never accepted the fact that I am, indeed, sick and I may never be in a state of homeostasis again. 

That’s depressing as fuck. 

So I’m sharing about it. Over the course of my life, I have found very few problems seem too big when I share them with another human being. It gets them right-sized. And it gets ME right sized…that’s more important. I know I’m never going to get well. All I can hope for is to feel better and that’s fleeting at best. 

My mom -The Nurse – knew how to deal with a sick kid. There was non-stop attention and Popsicles and lots of fluids. There are days I just want to be laying in my mom’s bed, watching TV and sipping ginger ale, feeling safe and knowing I would feel better soon. 

Isn’t that what we all want?

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