I've had the flu this last week. It started on Sunday night and has just seemed to get worse as the week has progressed.
I hate being sick.
Not that any of us enjoy's it, but I absolutely despise it. And the person I become.
I go from being a sane, rational, independant woman to a needy, whiny, horrible monster. I need attention. I need someone to tuck me in and rub my back and whisper in my ear that everything will be just fine.
I need my mommy.
Unfortunately, the Devil Woman doesn't do well with sickness.
When I was about 7 or 8 I got my first migraine. We lived in an old farm house in rural Illinios that was surrounded by corn fields and had no air conditioning. I was laying on the couch in the family room, in more pain than I can ever remember being in my entire life and I threw up all over the floor.
The Devil Woman, sweet, adorable, loving woman that she is, poked her head in the door, made a tsking noise and said, "Heat stroke, huh? Well, clean up the mess and then go take a cool bath. You'll feel better afterwards."
I looked up from my place on the floor and stared in dumbfounded disbelief. "Clean it up?" I asked weakly.
"Well, you know if I try, I'll just get sick myself. So yes, clean it up."
I could have argued that I was ill. I could have told her that it wasn't heat stroke but the worst headache in the history of headaches. I could have told her I had a brain tumor and was sure to be dead in less than a month (What? I swear I felt like it), but instead I just....cleaned it up.
You would think I'd have learned my lesson from that experience, but alas, I continue to dilude myself into thinking The Devil Woman will take care of me when I get ill. Yes, even after all this time.
So, I wake up this morning sick as a dog, but determined to go to work. I have several files to work on and I really don't want to sit at home and stare at the walls again (or the inside of the toilet bowl, for that matter), so I force myself into the shower and head off to work an hour later than usual.
I finally get there and immediately rush into the bathroom and greet my new best friend, the Porceline god. As I'm laying there, with my cheek resting on the seat, the little girl in me (who still hasn't given up) is longing for my mother.
I finish my business (very unpleasant business, might I add), rinse my mouth, splash cold water on my face and stumble out into the office, ready and willing to accept all the motherly concern The Devil Woman can offer.
Instead, everyone was huddled into a corner on the opposite side of the office, hissing at me. DW says, "Go home." I just kind of looked at her. "I'm not getting sick," she said. Cookie puts a file in front of her face and the rest of the office cover their mouths and noses with their hands.
I start walking towards my desk, intent on doing something, and DW puts her fingers up in front of her in the sign of a cross. "Back away from the desk."
I stop and she smiles. Then she says, "Go home. We don't want to end up sick, too. We love you, but go home."
I says, in a perfectly whiny little girl voice that I perfected at age 3, "Go home? GO HOME?" Then I sniffle. "I'm sick." Well, duh.
DW rolls her eyes. "Yes, baby, I can see that you're sick. Now go home."
I start walking towards her, determined to be comforted, and the blasted woman nearly falls on her butt in her haste to get away from me. I stop walking and sniffle again and my boss yells from inside his office, "Go the hell home!"
I look around at everyone - still huddling in the corner - pick up my bag and shuffle to the door. I look back over my shoulder and DW shoo's me. I sigh and say bye, then open the door, my head hanging. "Spawn?" Upon hearing DW's voice my head whips up and I turn around so fast I nearly pass out (I was pretty weak at that point).
"Yes?" I say, certain that she's going to rush forward and offer to take care of me. This is a glorious day. The birds are chirping, the sky is cloudless and DW is going to place a cold compress on my brow and offer me hot tea.
"Don't come in tomorrow if you're still sick, got it?"
Oh, boy, did I get it.
"Oh, and Spawn?"
I warily turned my head again, "Huh?"
"I love you."
Uh-huh, sure she does. *sniffle* I bet in some countries they consider that a form of child abuse.
Review: Bayou Moon by Ilona Andrews
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