Being Sick

Forty years ago I was living alone in a small apartment and working as an RN in a hospital. I hated my job and called off as often as I could without getting fired. You see, I never wanted to be a nurse - but that's an old story.

Fate stepped in one day all those years ago and I got very ill - high fever, cough, the works. I imagined that Robert Kennedy was in my apartment taking care of me. Since he'd been dead for several years at that time, maybe I wasn't imagining it.

Eventually I got better. Eventually I also got married and became a mother. And the major breadwinner of the family. Those days of calling off on a whim were over. I had to work.

Something must have switched in my brain. I began to work overtime. I worked when someone else called off. The money was good but it was as if I'd changed. I still didn't want to be a nurse. But I had responsibilities.

Now it's worse. I feel guilty when I'm really sick and not working. I go in, cough, and try to stay away from everyone else. But that's not doing me any good. At 63 I don't bounce back as fast and relapse quickly.

I promised Morgan that I would not wait to go to the doctor like I did this time. I could be over this now if it wasn't for my stubbornness.

I have to switch something in my brain again - to focus on me, not work. I think it's about time, too.