Barbara J. Hamby

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A Sick Day

A question I have not resolved in the years since retirement concerns when I’m sick enough to take to my bed and sip broth. There have been very few such days. At first, I would ask myself whether, if I were working, I would have stayed home on such a day.

Since today was Sunday, I didn’t need to speculate about whether I’d have gone to work. At 4:30 a.m. I awoke with what felt like a U.S. Marine band marching through my stomach and juices flowing in my mouth. I got up, drank some water, and went back to bed. When I opened my eyes again about 8:00 a.m. I felt just as bad.

Without further argument or question, I returned to bed and spent most of the day there. I began to feel like an unromantic version of Emily Dickinson, but hardly in the mood to write poetry.

John Grisham’s novel, The Painted House was a welcome distraction. So I read and dozed and enjoyed the opportunity to do so. Al came in from time to time to offer me food and drink and sympathy, which were much appreciated.

I got up a couple of times to read and answer email and watch the news on TV.

This evening I’m feeling much better.

Tomorrow we plan to go for a ride up the Columbia Gorge, always beautiful, but especially gorgeous this time of year when the trees are in full color.