I’m doing my nightly routine of writing. Since C’s been off work for a bit, our routine consists of cozying in the basement, space heater on, watching movies. Me with my laptop, he with his remotes. Tonight is different. Tonight, I’m sick.

It’s not a usual thing. Family rounds of illnesses usually latch onto me as a minor sore throat, and then disappear into thin air, never manifesting. This one’s different. This one’s hit me head on, putting me down for a nap midday, canceling events for the next day, and, quite honestly, leaving me not the best date ever.

Instead of enjoying Valentines post-kids in bed, even with a similar routine, I’m sitting with my laptop, watching Holmes on Holmes (one of our favs), staring. Just staring. At the tv…but not really. At this blank sheet, every now and again spurring myself forward with a few words, not even sure they make sense.

C says something to me, I hear gibberish, he turns to look at me like I’m crazy and sees me staring at him, mouth agape for breathing room, and silently shakes his head. I go back to staring, to using every cell in my body to make a coherent sentence, and C goes back to contemplating his new reality…that he soon will be the one, staring off in space, with Nighttime Theraflu at the ready.

But tonight, tonight I’m taking the time to take care of myself. There’s one thing we all know, if we don’t take care of ourselves, we can’t take care of our little loves! So tonight, I’m allowing myself to be sick!

(And if none of this makes sense, well…you know why).

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