Dearest Rachel –
Well, I suppose I saw this coming. As of Friday, I was already at the point where I wasn’t particularly motivated to get myself to the gym for another five uphill mile session – more from joint pain than illness, but aware that one might very well inform the other. By Saturday afternoon, I was sufficiently aware of my situation that I brought teabags with me to fix up in the green room before and after rehearsal. And yesterday morning saw me downing a quart of peppermint-and-licorice tea to keep my throat at least sufficiently soothed during the services so as not to be a distraction.
But all that did was to buy myself time, and keep myself functional for the commitments I’d already made and still had to fulfill. Good while it lasted, and I’d like to think that I kept any evidence of what I was dealing with to a minimum. But at this point, even after what should count as a full night’s sleep (complete with an interesting dream; thanks for being there, honey. I just wish you could have stuck around), I’m clearly not at my best. I’m definitely dealing with a cold. Or something like that; I’m not about to test myself for Covid, as it really doesn’t make a lick of difference at this point anyway. Besides, the test kits we have are probably so far out of date as to be meaningless if I were to use them.
Granted, as a general rule, I feel considerably worse in the mornings than later on in the day (which seems counterintuitive for an admitted ‘morning person,’ doesn’t it? It’s one of the reasons I still insist that I don’t qualify as such), which might suggest that I could proceed with my regularly scheduled activity this evening – another commitment, after all – but I’ve been getting advice recommending that I not push myself, and possibly spread whatever it is I have. In short, I ought to make this a long weekend; a long, painful weekend.
Painful from the body aches, the congestion and the cough. Painful for the slight headache and the warmth last night that came over me like a fever (but as of this morning, my temperature read 97.8ºF. Either the fever broke, or I never had one in the first place). Painful for having to turn down an invite to a Super Bowl screening with the folks – and although Daniel and I did accompany the family to dinner after the services yesterday, the two of us just went home without bothering to do anything else. I did find out about some of the ads (which was generally your only reason for watching the game), and the beer ad about Mondays pretty much sums it up for me today:
Maybe the only silver lining about whatever I’m going through is that I’m back under the two-fifteen mark again; not only did I do the now-usual 24-hour fast during rehearsal and services (apart from, of course, all that tea, which didn’t stick around all that long), but I haven’t been in a great hurry this morning to “feed the cold” like I’m supposed to (which I suppose is why you’re told to do so; you need to force yourself to consume calories to fight the cold off. Obviously, I’d rather my body fight it with the many calories it has stored up, but it would probably tell me that my reserves are close to a two-decade low – which I would counter by telling it that that was rather the point). Still, I probably ought to, all the same.
After all, it’s not as if I’m going to spend the day doing absolutely nothing. I’ve still got more laundry from the trip to take care of, as well as whatever Daniel’s built up in my absence. I wonder how many of these you had to do while feeling less than your best – and still did them – and how many I’ll have yet to do over the coming years.
In any event, honey, while I force myself forward, keep an eye on me, and wish me luck. I’m going to need it.
Letters to Rachel 