When you’re sick away from home I think the worst part is not having someone who loves you to fuss over you. The people you’ve known only a week don’t know you well enough to know that when you don’t comb your hair or put so much as a speck of mascara on that you’re feeling awful. That when you don’t eat you’re really awful. And that when you stay in bed *all* day you’re wretched. You can’t say to your loved one “will you go to the store and get me a Sprite and some saltines?” because they’re thousands of miles away (also who even knows if one can get these things in the village?)
So you put your cold compress on your own flushed head, wobble up and down the stairs every couple hours for water that you don’t want but know you need and take the foreign version of Tylenol. And you stare out the window to watch the clouds cover the sun, then see the rain fall straight down and eventually watch the wind blow away the clouds and the sun peek out again — several times. And read. And toss and turn and kick the covers off when you’re sweating and bury yourself in them when you’re shivering. And sleep. And listen to the birds. And watch night fall, and sleep some more.
I’ve been in bed about 36 hours now, and am thankful that it’s a comfy one. Henri the rooster tells me it’s time to get up now though, and it’s quite tempting to ignore him and burrow back under my covers. But I want to try to get out of bed today, put some fresh sheets on it, take a bath/sitting shower (yes, I will confess here I would give almost anything for my American shower at home) and maybe venture into town with Kate and Erika for the market. Except for a walk along the canal a couple days ago and one quick trip to the farm store I’ve not left the farm in days. I must be well enough this morning for cabin fever to be setting in.