Sick

Karen stayed home sick from work yesterday. It's not the swine flu, but it might as well be; I called it the "whine flu," which I thought was just hilarious. She didn't seem to share my sense of humor.

That means I stayed home from work, too. Wait, that's not exactly accurate. I always stay at home; I just stayed away from work.

I love having my mate around the house all day, even in her sniffly condition, but from my perspective she could not have picked a worse time to fall ill. I have at least five big stories due over the next 10 days, and having someone else in your space when you were anticipating being alone can be disconcerting. The fact you know that someone else is hurting and you want to be there for them can divert your attention even more. I didn't even have time to write my blog to you yesterday.

I got frustrated and a bit peevish. Then I reminded myself that nobody chooses the time or the way they wish to get sick. I certainly didn't. And these blasted kidneys do qualify me as sick, I also have to remind myself, even though now most of the time I feel just dandy. 

The time will come, I fear, when Karen will be doing the Nightingale thing for me on a far longer basis than I am in helping her to tend to a simple cold. And work, I've found as I've matured, always seems to have a magical way of getting done if one perseveres. It shouldn't get in the way of showing a little compassion and a comforting spirit when the one you love is sick.

I need to keep that in mind, and pray that she will, too. You know what they say about payback.