It appears I have completely missed Spring.
When I got sick 3 weeks ago, the trees outside still had bare branches and the tiny tips of green leaves were just popping through the ground. Skies were overcast, and the midday temperatures were barely hitting 50. If we were lucky, we could wear our light jackets in the afternoon instead of the heavy winter parkas.
While I was in quarantine (NO ONE wanted to be anywhere near my germs!), time froze. The blinds were pulled down to accomodate my 20 hr./day sleep schedule, and the weather outside was none of my concern. After my two weeks of solitary confinement, I spent another week trying to shake the residual exhaustion and wacky Chiari side effects.
By the time I finally made it out of the house and shook my head to clear the cobwebs, what did I find? Blossoms falling off the backyard pear trees, droopy daffodils, and a forecast of snow! Here in Ohio, that means that spring is over and we have moved on to the least popular of our seasons, “Mud”, which has already caused the cancellation of 3 baseball practices last week alone. “Mud Season” isn’t nearly as pretty as the flowers. I feel cheated.
On a side note, I’m coming up on the 12 month mark of this incident that seemed to start the plague of lousy health I’ve gotten stuck with this year. I’ve decided that upon reaching this noteable milestone, I’m passing off the black cloud to someone else. The dratted thing wore out it’s welcome rather early into it’s stay with me, and has rather impolitely refused to leave. I’ve had quite enough thank-you-very-much. Time to go.
Now, I’m off to enjoy mud season and all it has to offer. Good times.
Until next time…