You know those days that really suck? Well I just had one.
I woke Jason up at 2 am to tell him that I was having "a mild depression."
In his half-awake state, he took my hands, and told me that I was probably depressed because my hands were so cold, and then he fell back asleep.
So I went back to the living room where I took up my book and settled in for another long night of insomnia. Out Of Africa was having a hell of a time keeping my interest though, so I spent some time grooming my couch. Ever since buying this damned white couch, I spend an inordinate amount of time picking at my couch, like monkeys searching each other for nits.
When Jason stumbled out of the bedroom some time later, wearing a t-shirt but no pants, he asked if I had just woken him up. In fact, it had been more than 45 minutes since he had pronounced my fingers to be cold, but I let this pass. Once he learned of my melancholy, he wanted a more thorough explanation for it, and this is what I gave him: I spilled some honey...
Sometimes when you're exhausted, you make mountains out of molehills, or depressions out of spilled honey. Sometimes I don't even have to be tired to do this.
4 hours later, when Jason was desperately searching for his brown belt (the one that still needs breaking in) before it made him late for work, I sat in bed with an arm thrown dramatically over my eyes, trying to decide whether I should have him stay home from work to take care of me.
It's migraine season once again. But according to Jason, it's also apple pie season. So were he to stay home, he'd have to play his video games on mute and try to content himself with the carrot cake I made 2 days ago, which he'd nearly demolished already. And I would lie in bed, sensitive to light and noise, hoping for either death or sleep, and not caring much which one came as long as it came soon. So I opted to die (or sleep) alone.
But neither came quickly. I spent the morning retching in the bathroom so forcefully that I banged my elbow on the tub and bled and yet I was too weak to make the trek back to the relative comforts of bed once I was fairly sure that the bathroom had nothing left to offer me.
When I did make it back to bed an even greater tragedy befell me. I got "the sweats." My hands and feet remained ice cold, but the rest of me was roasting. For a while, it smelled like porkchops. That's how hot I was. I had to get up to change my sopping sheets, and while I was up, I got dizzy and had to "rush" back to the bathroom for another riveting game of dry heaves (and by rush, I mean limp along agonizingly slowly, using the wall as a crutch and cursing the floppy toe portion of my socks for threatening to trip me up). Back in bed the sweats had not deserted me yet, but this time I was prepared to lie in the pool of my own bodily fluids if it meant not getting up again. Finally (but not finally enough, if you know what I mean) I sank into merciful sleep.....
....only to be woken up 2 hours later by Jason, who came to announce to me that he was home, as if his 10 minutes of crashing around in the fridge hadn't already announced his arrival.
"What did you do today?" he asked me, with a straight face that I would have punched if only I hadn't still been so tired.
"I was sick!" I reminded him, angry that I had to.
"Did you paint?" he asked, clearly not understanding that I had been on the brink of death. The brink, I say!
"No, I didn't paint you damned buffoon!"
"Well there's paint all over the walls."
In fact, there was no paint on the walls. It was blood.
Apparently when I had used the wall as support to get myself back to the bedroom, my bloody elbow left behind a glowing red trail.
So I got out a pail and filled it with soapy hot water and washed away the smears. When I was nearly done, Jason asked "Oh, did you want me to help you with that?"
It's a good thing I don't own a rifle.
I plunked back down on the bed and beckoned Jason to take a look at my back.
"My hole's been sore" I tell him, unable to keep the whine out of my voice. "Tell me what it looks like."
FYI: No, not that hole, you perv. If you're not well-versed in the Jay and Jay saga, and for your sake I hope you aren't, some time ago I had surgery on my back that consisted of digging a large-ish hole right down to my coccyx. Over time, this hole has filled in not with flesh but with scar tissue, which can be a bitch. On good days, it feels soft like a blister, but on bad days it either feels like I have rocks under my skin, or else bobby pins. Both the rocks and the bobby pins are sharp enough to poke holes through my skin and it effin hurts.
"It looks....gross" he says, which is always a joy. "And you smell salty."
Well, I had been marinating in my own sweat for hours, hadn't I? At that rate, salty was probably the best I could hope for.
I was feeling a bit strengthened after a tall glass of water, and my migraine had subsided into a dull thud in the southeast corner of my brain, so I bravely readied myself for a shower.
I believed that hot suds and a fresh pair of pjs would work like magic on my disposition (and Jason, no doubt silently dubbing me Miss CrankyPants hoped so too) so I stripped in the bathroom and reached for my best friend, the hot water tap.
Just then, a plague on the house of Jamie descended...or more accurately, it descended on my back. Pain ripped through my lower torso, sucking the breath from me. I had not even the breath to complain. I just crumpled onto the floor, trying to suck in air and unkink my back at the same time. Jason found me there, rolling gently from side to side, bathed in new sweat and not at all happy.
As I writhed on the floor, I saw Jason's concerned face slowly transforming....into mirth. From my naked and vulnerable position on the floor, I saw very little that was funny, and was miffed that he did. But then he helped me to see:
"You look just like a turtle who's on his back and can't right himself. It's friggin hilarious."
And just then, I knew that he was right. It was funny. And so I laughed, relieved. Maybe I wasn't having such a bad day after all.
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