Sledgehammer to the chest

That's what I got hit with on Saturday, or at least it kind of feels like it. I've been laid out for five days with the worst respiratory infection I've had in years. It started in my lungs; I could feel it on Friday. By Saturday afternoon I was reduced to sitting on the couch with a blanket on my lap, and on Sunday I spent the entire day in bed, coughing up big globs of gunk and sleeping. I dreamed I was knitting in binary code – little 1's and 0's lined up along each needle where the stitches would usually be – and instead of knitted fabric, magazine pages were coming off the needles. I tossed them into a pile where they were transformed into odd-shaped sections of sleeves and plackets ... very unsettling.

On New Year's Day I decided to venture out with Mr. A for a short trip to the store (this is about the time he started coughing, too). Normally I would describe this trip in more detail, but given my weakened condition I'll just briefly summarize by saying that we caught a lost dog we saw wandering on a busy road and got him back to his people, which seemed to me a rather auspicious way to begin a new year.

Yesterday I was finally feeling energetic enough to sit up on the couch and indulge in a full-blown temper tantrum. I couldn't help myself – I had felt so shitty for such a long time, it seemed, and I was so bored of lying around like a dead thing. I had tried some very gentle stretching, hoping to bring myself somewhat back to life, but it only caused another fit of coughing. Then later, I thought maybe a little walk down the road would feel good, which it did, but when I came back into the overheated house again I felt like I was going to choke on my own lungs.

I don't remember what finally set me off, but once I got started I just gave in to it. I cried and wailed and blubbered away like a colicky infant, totally unreasonable and in pain, knowing that crying would only make my headache and congestion worse (which it did) but having no will to stop myself until I was all cried out.

It only lasted a couple of minutes, and I think it was just what I needed. Afterwards, I was still just as sick as before, but I felt better. Calmer. I love that clear, empty feeling that comes over you when you've exhausted yourself of all emotion and can finally just sit, still and peaceful – a perfect blank – and breathe.

Today is Wednesday, and I'm still trying to decide whether I ought to go to work for a few hours this afternoon. I've been bored out of my mind for days, and would love to get out of the house and do something useful. My lungs are still crackling and full of gunk, but my fever is down and I feel stronger. According to the world wide web, I am probably past the point where I'm most contagious – a crucial point, because I really don't want to start passing this thing around at work. If someone else had had the sense to stay home when they got it, I wouldn't have had to spend the last five days as a miserable, moaning and/or howling invalid.

Watching my mind through this ordeal has been interesting. Even when I know there's nothing I can do to get better faster, some part of me always wants to fight – I think that was what I came up against when I had my meltdown yesterday. Just that rage of being in pain and unable to get out of it. Turning my logical mind off, and letting the anger express itself, instantly took the edge off not only my emotional desperation but the physical pain, too. I don't think I've ever experienced that link so clearly before, and now that I've seen it I want to start paying more attention to it in other areas of my life.

Maybe this will be the year I finally start letting myself get mad.