I took “nothing is quite clicking for me lately” to the next level recently by getting really sick. I mean, I’m happy that I can still breathe and eat and all—it’s not one of the more horrible kinds of sickness—but for four days I have been alternating between shivering under layers of clothing with a space heater blowing at my face and waking up in puddles of sweat with a fever of (not actually measured) a million degrees. The pain in my throat suggests that I might have some sort of minor infection there.
Don’t feel too sorry for me (not that anybody WOULD, as often as I have bragged obnoxiously about never getting sick): M.H. was mostly spared from the disease and has been doing most of the hard work of cooking and cleaning and generally taking care of everything. I have been doing most of the easy work of sitting at my desk pushing buttons and then going to lie down for a while and then pushing the buttons some more.
The whole family got this to some degree, but here is that bright side: The disease fostered several we’re-all-in-the-same-boat-and-can-relate-to-one-another-and-work-together-as-a-team-to-get-through-this kind of moments, which was nice. And we learned that we’ve got our cooking routines so ingrained that we can keep ourselves pretty darn well fed, even while operating at about 28 percent of our normal combined stamina. I was kind of fascinated by the realization that we never even considered just ordering something in or going out to eat. When you refuse to eat gluten, your restaurant options become so limited—and everything is so annoying—that you’d rather just make orange chicken at home. For real.