the life and musings of a kinky slut


I am a stupid stubborn asshole. 

I have been sick for a week and only barely told anyone about it. 

Yes, the job because they had to know. 

Yes, the partner because he would’ve caught on pretty quickly. We text everyday and when he asks “How goes it?” it’s the one opportunity in my life where I don’t have to lie when answering. Also, unfortunately, he tends to be a better advocate for my health than I am. “TAKE ALL THREE DAYS!!!! Yes, that is me yelling.”

I blame the graduating residency class. They wanted people to come out to celebrate them on Friday night. They picked a bar that was mostly outdoors. I thought I was safe. Low and behold, I was the only non-senior there for the first hour. Everyone kept hugging me and bringing me in close (and buying me drinks). Saturday morning I thought it was a hangover I was feeling. Nope, they gave me the crud. 

I pushed through a Sunday shift barely eating anything because my throat hurt so bad to swallow. Even my saliva, fam. It was agony.

Monday I showed up to work feeling like shit run over, hoping my boss would see me and then send me home, which technically she did… after the morning procedures were complete. Still, I was thankful for the reprieve. 

I limped back to my car, drove home, and couldn’t help but sleep in my car for an hour before dragging myself up to my apartment and sleeping for another five hours. When I woke up, I actually felt worse. I called out for the next day on the spot. I forced down a can of Campbell’s soup, stayed horizontal for a few hours on the couch, and then went right back to bed.

Tuesday, I went to Urgent Care. They diagnosed me with an upper respiratory infection and an outer ear infection. Thankfully, negative for COVID, flu, and Strep. I got meds and a work note. I only managed half a can of soup that day.

I spent the rest of the week cycling between my bed, my couch, and the bathroom.

Getting older is the pits. I don’t remember it taking this long to get better. Taking this long to be able to breath out of my nose again. My god, you don’t even realize the wonder of being able to breathe out of your nose at will, unobstructed airflow in and out. I have had to be a mouth breather for the past week. I’ve felt like a barbarian. 

On my worst days, I was slumped on the couch, in pain, dejected, fighting for every breath. My head swam and felt like a weight. I chided myself for trying to move too quickly through my apartment. I’d tell myself to walk slower during the 20 foot trek from my couch to the bathroom. Once or twice, I cried.

I am taking medicine every 4-6hrs, but since I am on four different medications I set alarms on my phone. 

0200 – All meds 

0600 – Tylenol sinus 

0800 – syrup + Ibuprofen 

1000 – Tylenol sinus

1400 – All meds

1800 – Tylenol sinus

2000 – syrup + Ibuprofen + ear drops

2200 – Tylenol sinus

Rinse and repeat.

I got really good at opening pill packs while still half asleep.

I hate being sick. I fucking hate it. 

I lose all control of a body that now takes much longer to heal. I had to miss work, which was especially galling because it was in a clinic I loved last week. I felt so guilty for not working but also so angry that I felt any guilt about being sick because I was actually factually absolutely fucking sick. 

I could not safely hold a scalpel last week. Shit, I could barely hold my head up last week. Thick, regretfully colorful, gunk came out of my nose every five minutes. At night, when I woke up to evacuate my sinuses, I saw way more red in my tissue than was comforting. My daily shower was a chore. I couldn’t smell my food until after I’d blown my nose and, for the briefest of moments, I could breathe in through my nostrils, allow the chemoreceptors to work, and the taste became brighter, and the scents emerged, and I remembered why I liked that food in the first place.

I subsisted on applesauce and Amazon Prime. I finished The Marvelous Ms. Maisel mostly because their quick talking took my mind off the fact I had barely spoken a word in days. When I tried, my voice was a broken thing. I barely ate for three days at the start, Sunday through Tuesday. Out of morbid curiosity, I weighed myself. I lost seven pounds in just over a week.

Looking at myself in the mirror was how I knew things were truly bad. The face that stared back at me looked like a old crone, hunched over, haggard. ‘That can’t be me’ I thought, even as reality said it was so. 

But it was the mirror that also let me know I was getting better. When the roundness of my cheeks returned. When my eyes no longer looked hooded, but merely open. When color crept back, and my face began to look like my face again, I knew I was on the mend.

I start back work on nights tomorrow. No, I am not looking forward to it. I will be bringing my medications (save the ear drops) with me, as well as a box of tissues and a bag for the discards. I’m not well yet, but I am much better now. And, for brief moments today, I have be able to breathe with my mouth closed. I’ll take the little wins.   

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