Instead of Peter Pan trying to remember how to fly, I'm talking to my body here. I'm recovering from an illness yet again. Not just any illness though -- strep throat. I felt so horrible, I actually went to the doctor.
:shock:
When my son was tee-tiny, he brought home every illness known to babies. And passed 'em all on to me. Hand, foot, and mouth disease? Yep. Some virus which induces projectile vomit? You betcha.
Surprisingly, my sweet boy didn't (and hopefully won't) have strep; neither does anyone in our family. So where I received this mystery strain is beyond me. All I know is it kicked my ass and forced me to the doctor. For that alone, I hate it.
Until I turned 12, I spent a lot of time in my pediatrician's office. A lot. For a variety of illnesses, usually related to strep throat or too much snot pouring out one of my orifices. One time in the third grade, I was so violently ill, I actually broke a blood vessel in my eyeball. That takes skill, folks.
But this latest grapple with strep, well, it way-laid me for three days. I did nothing except sleep, drink orange juice, and watch General Hospital. Of course, I can't remember what happened on General Hospital thanks to some awesome antibotics, but I'll take swallowing over remembering who Sonny Corinthos is trying to kill any day.
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