As I write this, I’m still in the grip of the Grippe. It’s gotten after me in a crazy way. My lungs and voice have been the primary targets in this attack, but my sinuses were hit hard as well.
Most of the last 7 days, my blood and other bodily fluids have been tainted with foul-tasting lozenges, fizzing cold remedies, and other modestly effective tinctures. It is a pitiful existence to be certain. But I keep on, following a dim, ghostly hope that one day I will again draw a breath that doesn’t rattle and hitch in my chest, that my larynx and esophagus will be free of the unseen abrasive that rubs them raw.
Thankfully, my mom was scheduled for an extended stay with us, and she was up to the task of wrangling the small children for a couple of days while I weathered the worst of this vile pestilence in a prone position. I prayed for the solace of sleep, but it would not come. However, Saint Netflix On-Demand saved me from days of staring at the ceiling in utter misery.
The Grippe lingers, but I have summoned the strength to post my missives not chiefly to provide some modest entertainment for you, my readers, but more to prove to this rot, whose black and glistening tendrils still coil tightly around my insides, that I am not yet defeated.