I've now been home for nearly 132 hours. Of those, I haven't felt like pure crap for a total of about six. Since at least three of those hours were today -- before I went to Meijer and got into the true holiday spirit, you know, the one that fills you with rage and makes you want to kill other people -- I think I may actually be on the road to recovery. I'm such a wuss when it comes to being sick.
I grumble about this, and yet I do not complain.
I better not complain.
Let me explain.
There's this slap in the face life gives you from time to time called 'perspective'.
When I made an appearance at the office on Tuesday, I found an email informing me that someone I knew had died. K, the deceased, was still on the good side of 40. He wasn't a close friend, but a good guy I'd hit the golf course with a number of times. He even enjoyed a card game -- he'd hosted an event in October which featured a couple quick tourneys. K was in decent shape, had a family and from all appearances a million friends.
All those things got taken from him in no time flat. If I am correctly informed, flesh-eating bacteria did it. Fuck.
I didn't even know such a thing existed.
Now that I know it does, what cruel fucking shit.
So from now on, if you ask me, do I hate being sick, I answer as follows: Hell yeah, but it's not the worst thing ever, not even close.
Until I lose it, I have perspective.
It's just a shame that the best I can do with that perspective is make an insignificant contribution to a fund to send K's kids to college someday. Somehow, it seems pretty empty.