After a trip to the hospital that was less Grey’s Anatomy and more Nurse Jackie, I spent the past week in bed not doing anything interesting except annoying my husband with a nagging cough. Apparently there are degrees of bronchitis and it doesn’t “just go away”.
I believe bed is for fun and sleeping, not convalescing, which is why in my sneezing, sniffing, stomach-crunching coughing misery I still felt vaguely amorous. Maybe it’s that whole affirmation of life thing. I certainly felt like dying.
Anyway, these thoughts were crossing my pharmaceutical-addled brain when a courier arrived with the latest Women’s Health and Men’s Health Sex Issues plus lots of libidinous treats (nuts, chocolates, coffee beans).
It was a sign really, and a wonderful distraction from the pity party I was throwing myself. Even though I felt like the ugliest, most disease-ridden being on the planet, I would be fit, healthy and have sex again!
After eating the nuts and reading WH, I definitely perked up a bit. A long hot bath and layers of moisturising cream later, I took my medicine and made peace with this damn sickness, giving my husband a big kiss when he got home.
Of course, I forgot that the pill doesn’t work when you take antibiotics. I also dreamt I was pregnant. Fuck.