Last week, I wrote about the humiliating fall I took on some ice and how unimpressed I feel with senior citizenship so far. As my Granny used to say, “Old age ain’t no place for sissies.”
The virus I thought I’d beaten before my fall swept in with a whole new vengeance, knocking me out for weeks.
My errands remained unrun. I stayed home from church, small group, and everything else. I rescheduled a chiropractor appointment—which might have been helpful after my fall—only to cancel again a week later when I was still barking like a seal. Thankfully, I had enough pre-written columns stockpiled to see my readers through, as long as I remembered to email them on time. No actual writing got done, only lots of coughing, sleeping, reading, watching of British period dramas on TV, and staring out the window waiting for the angel of death.
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This is not me and I do not look this good when I'm sick.
I ventured out to the clinic with Hubby as my chauffeur, remembering with chagrin that when he’d had the same illness, he’d driven himself to the doctor. He took care of my errands. He even picked up my prescription for me—antibiotics and an inhaler. A week later, the drugs were gone and the symptoms still raged.
Our small group delivered a care package of soup, ham, muffins, cookies, cinnamon buns, and cheesecake—which almost made the ordeal worthwhile. Hubby was introduced to grocery shopping, and I was introduced to store-bought freezer meals and salad kits (which could all too easily become habit-forming).
Eventually, I discovered that by tackling one task per day, like cleaning a bathroom or throwing in some laundry, we could survive. But it was all I could manage. I’d crawl into bed and force myself to mentally count my blessings. Cozy bed. Warm blankets. My house. Cough syrup. Hot drinks. Tissues. Can you imagine going through a cold or flu with only fabric handkerchiefs and then having to launder them all with only a scrub board and clothesline? Yes, one can always find plenty for which to be grateful.
I know I’m not alone, and it’s not merely my age. Chances are, you’ve been plagued with a similar bug and its lingering symptoms. The difference is, I have a blog and get to whine about it in a public space. I hope you’ll consider this a rant on your behalf as well.
As I write this, I am finally seeing some light at the end of the viral tunnel which has kept my brain in a virtual fog longer than I’ve ever experienced. Will this worsen my already troubled lungs? I don’t know. Will my energy levels be even further depleted than before? I don’t know that, either. Is this simply what senior citizenship will look like for me? Heaven help me.
Which leads to my point. Though my daily posting of scripture memes on social media had come to an abrupt halt, two weeks into my illness a Facebook memory popped up where I’d shared a verse from Psalm 54 years before. “Surely God is my help. The Lord is the one who sustains me.”
Sometimes that’s all you really need to know.
