I started taking insulin injections on Wednesday and felt better immediately. I can do this, I thought: it'll be smooth sailing from here on out.
But when I woke up on Thursday, my throat felt like a sidewalk-scraped knee. Jim had been feeling badly for a couple days and was diagnosed, that same day, with bronchitis and an upper respiratory infection. "Go to the doctor," he encouraged, but I didn't see the point: I try to avoid medication (beyond Tylenol and, obviously, insulin) while pregnant.
I fell asleep praying I wouldn't get worse, but--for each of the next three mornings--I woke up feeling worse than I had the day before.
For days, my daughters ate candy corn for breakfast. They curled around my legs and tummy on the couch, and we watched an endless stream of cartoons. I hacked up a lung and cried for my mom, who lives eight hours away and couldn't come to my rescue.
Today is Day 6 of my crud. I can breathe (and smell) through my nose. I can function as the mother of little girls; we resumed "homeschool preschool" yesterday. They just had cereal as a side dish to their candy corn. I played board games with my son, last night; I got him to the bus on time, this morning.
I still sound terrible. I still feel as though I've been kicked about the ribs by an ornery old mule.
But this is what I really wanted to tell you: while I was dying on the sofa, my husband was cleaning and painting my recently- and suddenly-vacated bitty house. With diagnosed bronchitis and an upper respiratory infection. I was over there last night, and--considering the smoke, dog-pee-stained carpet, half-painted wall (as in, someone painted around a gigantic piece of furniture?), non-working light fixture, black and clogged (completely washable?) air filter, and broken toilet our former renters left behind--I wanted to cry for the beauty and freshness of it all.
And you wouldn't know, if you didn't know, the miracle in this: the power of prayer in this. Because, traditionally, my man has been the one hit hardest by any and all sickness in our household. I can't even count the times I've watched him crash and burn. But he's down 85 pounds since surgery (135 since the beginning of summer), and he's a new man.
He took us to the Amelia County Fair for his birthday; for hours, we walked around in the dark, and who knows how pitted with holes that cool ground? He bagged up clothes for Good Will and, twice, shopped in his closet; he came downstairs, this morning, proudly modeling a new size. He looks like he did on our wedding day. He's just so well, even when he's sick.
And that, my friends, is the power of prayer. Thank you, Lord.