Special Edition Blog: Sick-Day Saga
Being sick is never easy—but being sick and alone hits different. This last week tested me in ways that felt heavier than the fever itself. Four long days (plus a Friday bonus round) where my body refused to cooperate, and the silence of the RV felt louder than usual. Divorce has already rewritten so much of my life, but these sick days reminded me again of the raw truth: there’s no one here to grab me medicine, to tell me to rest, to make me drink water and eat, to laugh at the chaos when the grey tank overflows. It’s just me, two loyal dogs, and the messy business of getting through it.
This is part of my midlife plot twist—the one I didn’t plan for, but here I am. Learning to carry myself through the hard days, to find humor in the ridiculous, and to lean on two furry companions who remind me that love shows up in many forms. No men required.
There were parts of this story I thought about leaving out—like the bathroom incident—but the truth is, I want this blog to be a space where I’m real. Vulnerability has never come easy for me. I’ve spent a lifetime building walls, but here, I’m trying something different: honesty. Because maybe, in sharing the messy parts, I’ll find a little more freedom.
So instead of writing each day as it happened, I’m piecing it together here—the whole feverish, frustrating, sometimes funny, sometimes cosmic saga.
Monday
Sunday evening I dreamed of family. I can’t remember the details, only that it was heavy with sadness. I carried that weight with me as I surfaced into reality, my alarm blaring—it was the dreaded Monday morning, like a villain bursting through the door.
Freya was sprawled across my chest like the royal highness she believes she is, pushing at me with her paws as if to say, “Excuse me, human, turn that off. It’s not time yet.” Naturally, I obeyed. Who argues with a queen?
But reality struck back with throat razors, hacking coughs, and a fever radiating through me. Noooo, not this… I thought. Freya leapt off the bed in disgust at my human malfunction. I stumbled out of bed, desperate for something cold—or warm—anything to soothe the razors in my throat.
Water helped, but only barely. I turned to steam. The shower became my temple, the hot water cascading over me, my head pressed to the wall, whispering prayers to the steam gods. Inhale. Exhale. Get it out. You need to survive Monday. But the universe chuckled, spinning the room around me when I tried to stand. I waved my white towel and surrendered to bed. A quick message to work, a reshuffling of plans, and I let sleep claim me again.
When I woke again, I settled into the slow, methodical rhythm of Anno—letting the soothing music and tiny empires build in my fever haze. Laundry hummed in the background, a small victory of productivity. Until it wasn’t.
Suddenly, I heard pouring water—Niagara Falls pouring water. Panic snapped me upright. Sick, sweaty, horrified, I sprinted outside to dump the tank, then back inside to deal with the flood. Apparently, my grey tank had reached full capacity, and the washing machine decided my kitchen sink and floor would make an excellent overflow reservoir. My sick body groaned like a cartoon villain caught too early in the morning light.
Three towels, one blanket, and half a roll of paper towels later, the flood was tamed and my kitchen floor sparkled like I’d meant to deep-clean it all along.
With the crisis averted, I collapsed back into my recliner, surrendering to the world of city-building until a nap called my name. I slept hard, two dogs curled up beside me, warm and loyal anchors.
We woke at midnight, their eyes locked on me with a mix of hunger and “bathroom break, please.” Guilt washed over me as I dished out a very late dinner, then shuffled us all to the gazebo. A walk wasn’t happening—my feverish, worn-out body was tapped out—so potty time would have to happen there.
I sank into my zero-gravity recliner and was out almost instantly. At some point, I was pulled back by the gentle whining of Freya. She sat upright, watching me, making little guinea pig noises that cut straight through my sleep fog. Maybe I was snoring in an unladylike fashion and this was her way of keeping me modest. Either way, her persistence got me moving. With a sigh and a chuckle, I gathered the pups, and we finally headed inside.
Once inside, I climbed back into my recliner and immediately was sound asleep.
Tuesday
When I awoke on Tuesday morning, I couldn’t recall any dreams—just darkness, heaviness, and sickness. I opened my eyes to a pounding headache and sore throat. I had a cough, but only when I spoke; otherwise, silence. Strange. No real drainage in my sinuses or throat, which made both the cough and the sore throat feel off-kilter.
I shrugged it off and cursed allergies, lupus, and my poor immune system. A normal person would be fine right now, I thought, disgusted with my body. I needed to work—too much was pending. I had planned to finish it Monday, but that hadn’t panned out. And today? Today I felt worse, if that was even possible. Every part of my body ached. Lupus? I questioned myself.
Coffee would be my only salvation. I staggered to the espresso machine, praying for the morning fix. But the normal hum of the machine, usually my symphony of bliss, now pounded like a jackhammer inside my skull. I closed my eyes and tried to focus: inhale, exhale, slower. Inhale, exhale, hold, release.
When I opened my eyes, the light sparked like tiny fireworks—sharp, unpleasant, stabbing through my brain. Coffee brewed, I took a sip, hopeful. But the taste was all wrong—like dirt, dirty water. My disgust was immediate. That’s when I knew—something was cosmically wrong.
My Auntie in California warned me of a new COVID strand, still recovering from her own. Surely not me. I’m a hermit! My only outings were work, Lowe’s, the gas station, and boarding the dogs. I sanitize like a germophobic raccoon and keep my distance from strangers.
But the test lit up positive within minutes. The universe laughed. Great. Just great.
I sent my boss lady a quick message and my partner-in-crime (aka coworker), then did the only thing a smart sick person does: climbed back into bed.
I literally slept the entire day on my wood platform with both dogs loyally plastered to me, like furry guardians. When I woke up it was dark—my babies surely were hungry and needed to potty. They’d been neglected the last few days.
When I tried to get up, my back and hip screamed at me, sending shock waves up my spine and down my leg. Lovely, I thought. My bones have joined the rebellion.
Then came the bathroom debacle. A coughing fit mid-sprint opened the floodgates. Since my hysterectomy, “holding it” is not my superpower. Disgusted, I climbed into the shower, sat on my throne, and cried. Tears of humiliation, of loneliness. First time since my twenties I’d been this sick and this alone. Cosmic irony. Tears only clogged me further, so I rinsed off and crawled back to bed.
Wednesday
I woke up early Wednesday because my entire body felt wet and cold. When I opened my eyes, I was covered in dog and body sweat. I commanded the dogs down, and they immediately obliged. I crawled out of bed and made it to the shower to rinse off.
Afterward, I took my temperature—my fever had broken. Since Monday it had ranged anywhere from 99 to 103. I hadn’t taken any meds, hoping to let it run its course, just keeping a watchful eye. With high hopes I was finally on the mend, I started my day.
I fed the dogs, brought them outside for a half-hearted walk—well, a circle around the trailer if you can call that a walk—then settled us into gazebo time, enjoying the cooler morning air. Coffee still wasn’t appealing, so I brewed a cup of hot tea instead. I sat in my zero-gravity recliner, taking in the quiet: birds squawking, insects chirping, the hum of cars on the main road. For one cosmic moment, all was still.
I lay there for a while watching, listening, relaxing—until sleepiness overcame me. I reclined my chair and was out.
I woke freezing, my entire body shivering, like my insides had turned to ice. I stumbled to the restroom and checked my temperature: 102.7. Great. I wanted the fever to do its job, so I did what any insane person might do—I marched to the gazebo, declaring it my fever sauna. Crazy? Genius? Both. The dogs never looked away, guardians sensing their human wasn’t right.
When I finally woke, I was hot and drenched in sweat—both dogs sprawled out on the cement around me, guarding me as I slept.
We stumbled back inside the house, and I took another shower—this time, I sat and enjoyed letting the slime of heat and humidity wash off of me. Head bent forward, I let the cold water hit my neck and run down my back. Cold water when you’re sick is miserable. Absolutely miserable.
Once out of the shower, I checked my temperature—back to normal. I glanced at my phone and saw a message from my boss lady. I know me being out is tough on everyone at work, and that familiar nagging of guilt tugged at me. I knew this was one of those things out of my control and that I shouldn’t feel guilty, but guilt and I are lifelong frenemies.
Feeling better, I decided to do something productive and fix my truck bed—the new slide cover was stuck, and I couldn’t close it. I hauled myself into the back of the truck and immediately regretted it. The world spun, and I plopped myself down hard on my butt in the truck bed. It was either that or risk tumbling right out onto the ground.
I sat there, locked on one spot, trying to steady myself. Closing my eyes only made the spinning worse. My stomach lurched, I gagged, and then the coughing started—violent, body-rattling. Breathe in, breathe out, I told myself. Focus.
Once the world stopped spinning and my stomach settled, I inspected the bed slide cover and spotted the problem: a screw had come undone and was sitting in the bed. Thankfully, I had tools back there—and thankfully no one had stolen them while I was sick and unable to close the cover. A few minutes later: bada bing, bada boom. Fixed. No men required.
Scooting out slowly, regretting my “productivity,” I collapsed back inside. The rest of the day blurred into sweats, recliner naps, and cosmic dreams.
Thursday
When I woke Thursday morning, I felt significantly better compared to the last four days—but the headache and fatigue still lingered, a heavy cloud enveloping me. I decided not to repeat yesterday’s mistake with grand ideas of productivity.
When I should be productive, I can’t get moving. And when I should be still, I overdo it. I’ve always been like this—small, little self-sabotages. Why am I like this? I wondered.
I spent the day moving back and forth between my wood platform and recliner, between sleeping and watching The Hunger Games. It’s one of the series I always watch when I’m sick. My Canadian friend and I had started watching them while gaming, but they hadn’t gotten my full attention—so I restarted.
Honestly, I hated the last book and the last movie. Not because they were poorly done, but because I wanted a fairy-tale ending. Instead, they chose reality over fantasy, and it made me mad. I’m sure I could pull plenty of philosophical threads from that line of thinking, but the truth is—I was still sick, still tired, and my brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders. That kind of deep introspection was too much to ask of myself.
I spent what energy I had writing, capturing details before they evaporated into the ether. The day ended in fur-baby snuggles, warm bodies pressed against me as I slipped into a deep, drooly sleep.
Friday
The phone dragged me out of sleep, but I noticed something—the sickness no longer had its chokehold. Still lingering, but weaker. I had a doctor’s appointment. A retest for breast cancer. Three months ago, they’d seen “something.” Standard procedure, probably nothing. But that whisper—what if?—echoed. Family history haunted me: my aunt, my grandma. The bad kind. The genetic kind. The cosmic roulette of women.
COVID or no, they cleared me to come in. I shuffled through my routine, ignored the dogs’ pointed whines as I kenneled them, and drove the long hour and a half—music blaring, Mooma on the phone, trying to drown out the spiral.
At the office: routine. And then—relief. The lump was gone. The bruising, gone. Nothing. An expensive nothing, but one I’d gladly pay for. Fear washed off me like cosmic dust in a storm.
Back home, I sat with the dogs in the Texas heat wave. Fall had teased me last weekend, only for Texas to laugh and throw summer back in my face. Typical cosmic prank. We lasted until we couldn’t, then retreated inside.
Dinner was not on me—I ordered a club sandwich and fries. When the food arrived, there were two. Panic! Did I double order? Nope. The receipt said one. Thank you, universe. Tomorrow’s lunch sorted.
The night rolled into Anno—building empires, harvesting, crafting. Like Civilization or Risk, but better. A game where your brain squirrels from one shiny task to another, forgetting one nut the moment another rolls by. Pure relaxation.
The dogs anchored me in a glorious dog pile—Odin across my legs, Freya sprawled across my abdomen, nudging my mouse when I dared pause scratching her. As if I could forget their presence with all that weight pinning me down.
We stayed up too late, fueled by music, caffeine, and empire-building. I chose my wooden platform for sleep—new twin mat making it only uncomfortable instead of crippling. Progress.
All in all, it was a good day. Still mending, but on the mend. Good news, lots of love from the fur babies, and good gaming-family time. Though… way too many were missing for a Friday night. Unacceptable.
Closing Reflection
Looking back on this week, I realize it wasn’t just about being sick—it was about facing the harder truth of being sick and alone. No one was here to fetch the medicine, to make me soup, to laugh at the chaos of my grey tank mishaps. Just me, two dogs, and a stubborn will to keep moving forward.
But maybe that’s what this midlife plot twist is really about. Learning I can sit in the hard, lonely parts and still come out the other side. That I can cry in the shower one day and fix my truck bed the next. That I can be vulnerable—share even the bathroom disasters—and not fall apart because of it.
I’m still mending, but I’m on the mend. I’ve got love in the form of two loyal fur-babies, a gaming family that shows up when I need them, and a stubborn streak that keeps me building (in Anno, in life) no matter what.
It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t easy. But it was real. And for now, that’s enough.
10 Lessons of the Week
Being sick means more naps together—but don’t think for a second it means fewer snacks for them.
Grey tanks wait for the worst possible moment to teach life lessons.
Nothing screams “you’re unwell” louder than gagging on your espresso.
Crying in the shower doesn’t cure congestion, but sometimes the ugly-cry is medicine anyway.
Fever saunas in the gazebo: crazy, genius, or both? Still undecided.
Sometimes victory looks like falling on your butt, then fixing it anyway—no men required.
The only thing worse than a fever? A cold shower with a fever.
Gaming during COVID recovery is like therapy—slow, methodical, distracting. Thank you, Anno (and Canadian friend).
Dogs make the best weighted blankets, even when they hog all the space and crush your lungs.
Midlife plot twists aren’t glamorous—they’re fever sweats, loneliness, and yes, even bathroom mishaps. But they’re also proof of a stubborn will to heal, and of two dogs whose love never wavers.
