“Health is a state of complete physical, mental and social well-being, and not merely the absence of disease or infirmity. ”
Constitution of the World Health Organization.
Aya came down with her first summer cold this year after a swim party at a friend’s house on Monday. Since Monday night, she’s had a sore throat and a little dry cough. The thermometer doesn’t register a fever, but she intermittently feels warmer than usual and has that occasional listless look that I associate with fevers. She woke up with pinkeye in her left eye before midnight on Tuesday; Benadryl didn’t help, so she saw the doctor Wednesday morning and got some drops.
Her spirits seem good. When I got home last night, she was prancing around watching Def Leppard videos and singing along. Hopefully she’ll be feeling all better on Friday.
Aya is resilient. I’m not so much, not anymore. I came home from work on Tuesday night and just curled up in bed and crashed, thanks to a flare of this autoimmune disorder I have. It was very frustrating to try to comfort Aya when I felt so wretched myself, and even more frustrating to have this feeling that I’m at the mercy of my own body. I gave up and made Brian deal with comforting Aya – and, of course, felt like the worst mom in the world because I gave up and put myself first.
Dwelling on hate is not something anyone should do, but I find myself doing just that. I hate that my body is attacking itself. I hate the idea that there’s something that my determination can’t conquer. I hate being hampered by these physical limitations when there’s so much I want to do. I hate not being able to do everything I want for my daughter.
Hate, hate, hate. Blah, blah, blah.
Should I be happy that I’m losing more weight? Probably not. It worries me.
I’d settle for the absence of disease or infirmity, you know. I think the rest would follow.
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