Sunday was lost. I went back to bed to try to sleep my virus off. I felt cold, hot, cold, hot and miserable. Somewhere in the middle of my feverish dreams, I became aware that Pope Benedict was giving me Sacrament of the Sick. I was dying. He sounded like Colonel Klink from Hogan's Heroes. I mean no disrespect here. This was my dream. After I received last rites, I jumped out of bed, scared out of mind I was dying. What the hell did this mean? I was frightened and a bit out of my mind. I'm not even Catholic. Should I be? I mean, was the Pope trying to tell me something?
I stood there looking around my room still feeling too miserable to be dead and saw the TV on and broadcasting the Pope's mass in New York's Yankee Stadium. Not dead. Not even close. I told my husband that I felt sick and if I needed to go to the hospital, I didn't want to go on life support. He said "no problem."
Either I'm being somewhat overly dramatic (again), or he just doesn't want to prolong his misery. He gave me Sudafed and sent me back to bed. Later, I tried to research the meaning of my dream and I think I've figured it out.
- Don't sleep with the TV on.
- Watch out for home-made cough syrup (1/2 cup honey, 1/2 cup lemon juice and 1/4 cup Jack Daniels.) It makes you hallucinate-especially when you drink it all.
- Don't let your spouse be your health care advocate. If you're worth more dead than alive, you are providing too much temptation in your viral state.