My Nose Runneth Over

Herself speaks.

I am developing a cold.
I thoroughly despise being sick.

I remember, a thousand years ago now, what it was like to sick as a child. I'd stay in my room. Sometimes I would get the small black and white television to keep me company, set up on a chair a few feet away from the bed. There were only the four channels -- ABC, NBC, CBS, and PBS -- and I would have to get out of bed to change the channel (which meant usually that I did not).  New Zoo Revue was standard sick television fare.

I would occasionally get that tasty orange-flavored aspirin, or, if antibiotics were necessary, pills ground up into a little bit of applesauce (not so bad).  I would get meals in my room -- soft-boiled egg in the egg cup, toast, ginger ale, soup -- and periodically would be instructed to go take a shower to cool off, and I would return from the bathroom to fresh and clean sheets.

It was no fun being sick. I did feel cared for, though.

(Looking back, I have realized that I previously wrote a post almost exactly like this - here. The sentiments are still exactly the same. Indeed.)