When I came back from my dad's, J. was getting a hard cold. Half my choir has been sick, too. I had a few sniffles but seemed to be avoiding it: I consumed zinc, and echinacea, and was pleased. My nose got stuffier, and one day my limbs ached, but the next day I felt fine; I went to choir rehearsal, and sang on Sunday, my voice seemingly unaffected.
But there had been several restless nights when sleep had come but wouldn't stay. I woke on Monday, turned over, groaned, and went back to sleep until 10:00 am -- unheard-of for me -- and stayed home. A day of total rest, though? No, that would have been too radical. I made carrot soup and an apple crisp; I cleaned and weeded my closet and switched the summer and winter clothes; organized the plants that had been brought in from the terrace before the frost.
Today I woke with my sinuses pounding, but took a hot shower and bundled up and came to work anyway. As the morning went on, my head hurt more and more, and although I made myself eat something, I felt sick to my stomach; the cat and I retreated to the studio couch and I fell asleep. When I woke I felt considerably better, and even hungry, and have stayed put all afternoon, drinking weak tea and eating toast and listening to Manon purr. Upstairs, the pianist played Chopsticks, and then bits of the Moonlight Sonata; his child dragged a heavy object back and forth across the floor. We worked with our far-away client via email; a problematic graphic was resolved. Swathed in an old thermal blanket, I read a poetry manuscript for the third time. The cat lay on my lap, utterly contented; I lifted the end of her tail to her face and she happily groomed while I held it, biting the end with little nips of her sharp teeth.