Being sick is strange. The part where you get worse? Then the part where, if you’re lucky, you get better? Both really odd experiences. I suspect I’m in the getting better part as I write this, at least I sincererly hope I am.
I’ve spent the better part of the past two or three days sitting on my sofa working or not working, staring at a little project I started but got too ill to finish.
I could likely muscle through the work. I need to plane down and trim up some boards, do a bit of joinery, only 3 simple lap joints, sand, assemble, and oil. But that would likely add a day to my recovery so I’m sitting here feeling just good enough to be able to do something, but not well enough for it to be very smart to do it.
The memory of illness is fascinating. I find myself awash with empathy for the chronically ill and reborn with a passion for my returning health. I’ll run! Meditate! Fast!
But how quickly I forget that it was like to be unable to comfortably swallow, or walk down stairs without feeling light headed. Hell, I forget between sips of tea or trips to the restroom.
Maybe this time I’ll remember a bit longer.
I’ve spent the better part of the past two or three days sitting on my sofa working or not working, staring at a little project I started but got too ill to finish.
I could likely muscle through the work. I need to plane down and trim up some boards, do a bit of joinery, only 3 simple lap joints, sand, assemble, and oil. But that would likely add a day to my recovery so I’m sitting here feeling just good enough to be able to do something, but not well enough for it to be very smart to do it.
The memory of illness is fascinating. I find myself awash with empathy for the chronically ill and reborn with a passion for my returning health. I’ll run! Meditate! Fast!
But how quickly I forget that it was like to be unable to comfortably swallow, or walk down stairs without feeling light headed. Hell, I forget between sips of tea or trips to the restroom.
Maybe this time I’ll remember a bit longer.