G and I are still sick. She seems to be almost to the fine-by-day, coughing-by-night stage that comes at the tail end of all her illnesses. I feel like a dog turd with a tire track through it, but I think I've turned a corner and my white cells are starting to win the battle. Maybe by tomorrow I'll be halfway human again.
Just a couple of weeks ago, I was telling my father that I was concerned about what would happen if I got really sick, now that P isn't here to help me. This wasn't my worst-case scenario -- it's an icky virus, but it's nothing like the flu that knocked us all flat at Christmas two years ago -- but it made me even more worried. I've been able to take G to her sitters and go to work for part of every day this week, but what if I was so sick I couldn't get out of bed? (I'm having visions of the chapter in Little House on the Prairie when they've all got malaria and Laura has to crawl across the floor to get water for Mary.) What if I needed to go to the doctor, or worse, the hospital? It worries me.
Another problem has been keeping the place from going to hell around us while I've been indisposed. When P was alive, he did most of the housework, so if I was sick, things stayed pretty normal, and if he was sick, I could pick up the slack. The last few days I haven't felt like doing anything but lying on the couch, and it shows. I've forced myself to stay on top of the most urgent stuff -- throwing out the used tissues, running the dishwasher every night, doing a load of laundry here and there -- but there's a lot of cleaning and washing and grocery shopping awaiting me when I'm feeling better, or by the end of the weekend, whichever comes first.
I have to admit that I've just plain been feeling sorry for myself too. It's bad enough being sick and miserable, but if you start reflecting on how much life as a widow sucks on top of that, it's only a matter of time until you hear the sounds of flat champagne being poured and broken horns wheezing as the pity party begins. Wah.
Anyway, enough gloom and doom. I am getting better, and at least I have G and the cats to keep me company. Catherine likes to lounge elegantly at a discreet distance, but Malcolm is a snuggler, and he's been stepping on me and bumping me with his head and trying to lie down on top of me all evening. He's on the floor right now, though, because Catherine got annoyed with him and pushed him off the bed. Lucky for me I'm bigger than she is, or she might decide to give me the boot too!