Tell you a secret

So I've spent most of my time awake today on the phone. I've talked to my chief resident, I've talked to my folks, I've talked to my aunt, I've talked to about half the intern class (we all change services tomorrow, so today is the day we all clamor to hand off patients and get tips and compare notes. Well, and Mike called about his patient who died Friday, and PenuinShrink called just to see how I was doing with the pox). And I've been trying so hard to be congenial and pleasant and upbeat and put up a good front.

But...I have a confession to make...

Holy cow, I'm miserable.

I'm itchy. I'm running a fever. I'm so tired I can't even tell you. I've been too tired to knit, too tired even to read. I'm all achy. And I think my spleen hurts. I finally have a pock on my face, but it's little, which is helpful, but it also hurts. Actually, most of them are pretty small, except the weird ones on my elbow. I'm a little woozy. And a lot cranky. And I can't seem to stop scratching, particularly while I'm asleep, and don't anyone dare say anything about putting socks on my hands. I can't even keep socks on my FEET at night.

The first few times I had the pox I was mostly just itchy. Seems like the older I get the more "ill" I actually feel.

And, I think my bottle of white wine turned.

Grumble, mumble, whimper, groan. Mmmmm, I'm so crabby. Stupid pox.

Why yes, I would like a little cheese with my whine, why do you ask?

Maggie's been pretty cute, though. Every so often she comes over to the couch and nudges me - to make sure I'm still alive, I think - and then licks whatever exposed skin is available and insists that I pet her. Because that cures everything. No really, just ask any dog.