Vaccine Flu

Holy smokes, I was knocked down yesterday by the vaccine flu.  I was s-i-c-k!  Everything ached--my skin, my muscles, my bones.  I took two extra strength Tylenol, but they didn't seem to touch it.  I kept telling myself that I wasn't sick.  I didn't have a disease.  My body was just preparing itself to ward such things off.  

But I felt viral.  I felt contagious.  

I don't know that I would recommend anyone getting both vaccines at the same time no matter what the CDC says.  I'm not certain I ever want to get vaccinated again.  Yesterday was agony.  

"You're such a little drama baby.  Shut the fuck up."

"I'm just sensitive."

It took everything I had to prepare the house for the maids.  Then I went back to bed.  I left my iTunes station playing, and I would sleep one song at a time.  And dream.  Three minute dreams.  Most were not comforting.  Indeed, they were far worse than that, and I was sinking, with each song, into deeper and deeper despair.  

At 12:30, I got a text from the cleaning crew that they were on their way.  I  struggled out of bed and went to sit with my mother.  While I was there, I got a message from the cleaner.  

"This is Lamine.  Please call me.  I need to talk with you."

Oh, shit. . . what has gone wrong now.  I called him back.  

"You know, we've been cleaning your house for almost 20 years now.  I am 72 and Maria is 73, and we are getting tired.  We've decided to retire while we still have our health, so. . . ."

Oh, man. . . my stomach fell.  I'm getting too old for change.  I don't want it.  

"We've sold the company to a very nice man.  He will have the same crews."

For a moment, I thought that maybe I should begin cleaning my own house.  That thought ran through my mind quickly, though.  What do I know about cleaning?  I've had a cleaning crew since I was married.  I haven't cleaned a house for. . . how long?  Really?  No wonder when I clean nothing looks as if it has been done.  

I haven't done my own yard work for even longer.  Maybe I could do that.  But what if I go away?  What then?

When I got home, the house was clean, but I was depressed.  Maybe it was the sickness.  I didn't know.  I just knew that I was sinking quickly.  I decided to take a Xanax.  This is the second time in a couple months that I felt the need.  That is not a great sign.  I read today in The Times about people who have that "meh" feeling a lot.  It is a low grade depression that enervates its victims.  I got up at five and read it then.  I just went back to find what it is called, but the article is gone.  The paper updates at six.  Whatever its name, though, I think I have it.  

All I wanted yesterday was a little help.  I am a lover without a love.  I needed some support.  How did this happen?  What the fuck did I do?  

Yea, yea. . . everything is a joke.  A big fucking joke.  

Maybe I'll feel better today.  Surely.  

I read a long time ago about some rich old movie star who was old and sick and lived in an apartment at the Mount Sinai hospital.  I just looked it up. 

The Mount Sinai Hospital in New York City has a premium patient accommodations program called Eleven West that offers luxury and relaxation. Eleven West provides guests with a refined atmosphere of serenity, privacy, and comfort.

That's what I want.  That's exactly what I want--serenity, privacy, and comfort.   

What I have, however, is overwhelming me.  

"Shut the fuck up!  Nobody wants to hear you."

Yea. . . I know.  

Q sent me this yesterday.  

"Overheard in a wine bar, from a woman who had been sitting happily by herself: You came all the way over here to talk about yourself?"

I wrote back, "No.  I just write a blog."