By nature I’m a bit of a hypochondriac, so the pandemic gods are having quite a bit of fun with me.
To me, any cough becomes suspect. Every headache signals the end. It doesn’t help that here in north Florida a thick coating of bright yellow pollen adorns every outdoor surface, and the particles find their way into nasal passages and beyond, resulting in stuffy noses, watery eyes, and headaches that seem resistant to Tylenol.
In the middle of the night I woke up with a headache of epic proportions. Behind my eyes the pain pounded relentlessly. Boom! Boom! Boom! Then I developed a tickle in my throat, resulting in a dry cough that awakened Studly Doright. Studly was actually concerned and offered to get me some medicine. I think his exact words were, “Are you feeling sick?” which to my paranoid mind was code for, “Is it the virus?”
I patted him back to sleep, got up and took a couple of Tylenol, even though those I’d taken four hours earlier hadn’t helped much. And I drank some over the counter cough syrup, that at least calmed the tickle.
Worse than the physical symptoms, though, were the imaginary ones. I was pretty sure I’d developed COVID-19, even while I knew that wasn’t the case. I’m a hypochondriac who knows she’s a hypochondriac. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not.
My headache is merely a sinus headache and my cough is but a dry throat tickle. It’s that time of year and I go through this process annually, but damn, it’s hell for a hypochondriac during a pandemic.
When I stumbled out of bed this morning and fired up the laptop, I figured I’d be unproductive in the writing department, but after a slow start I totaled 2,000 plus words. So, maybe my muse works well with hypochondriacs. Go figure.