I’m at work and I feel lousy. My throat hurts and I feel really tired and run down. I don’t have a thermometer at work, but I have something that works almost as well: my blood kit. I’m 131, which tells me for sure things are not right in the inner-workings of Lora. At this point, I should be about 85.
I’d love to go home, crawl into bed with my two dogs and sleep for 14 hours straight. But I can’t. Work is rough and sick days aren’t always looked upon as a good thing.
So I’m drinking a ton of water and slugging it out. I’ll keep an eye on my sugar in case I dive-bomb. Food really isn’t an issue. Although I brought a full lunch, I have zero appetite.
I’ll try to catch a five-minute nap in the bathroom a couple times today, and do the “yes, I’m really reading this manuscript” pose while I catch a quick eye rest. Other than that, I’ll just slug it out and fall asleep as soon as I get home; make my husband wake me at a couple points to check my sugar.
I hate being sick. And not just diabetes-sick.
As always, more to come...