Still hanging on here in Hillmomba. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom felt like she was on her deathrecliner this morning, after 11 days of only 3-4 hours of sleep per night, and the return (with vengeance) of her symptoms within hours of feeling almost normal Thursday morning.
Off to Urgent Care for a diagnosis of sinus infection, and a prescription for a Z-pack. The yellow snot is not going to triumph over Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. But for now, it is winning the battle. Still miserable, with throat pain and ear pain and a headache above her eyes...Mrs. HM popped her Zs and slunk down to her dark basement lair this afternoon. Her eyes tear at the drop of a trucker's cap, and her ears alternately ache when she swallows.
The poor Pony was on his own for supper. I brought him a DQ chicken basket for lunch, but he had to warm his leftover Chinese from Thursday for supper. Farmer H offered to pick up something for us in town while on a trip to buy chicken feed. But it was too late for The Pony, and I has no taste. So I declined. Farmer H took off for town anyway. Leaving The Pony, two hours later, to run up and grab some sustenance for me.
What could The Pony make? It was obvious that he could not whip up some tuna salad that I was craving. Or chicken salad. "But Mrs. Hillbilly Mom," you say. "The Pony is 17 years old. If not now, when?" I don't care when he makes it for himself, but I am persnickety. He would have to rinse that stuff many a time after opening the can. And he hates the smell of tuna. And he was not going to chop up a pickle and an onion. So...I asked for a can of potted meat from the small pantry, because I think it has not yet expired. And three slices of that little French bread we bought last Sunday at The Devil's Playground. As tasteless meals go, it was delicious. Then I took some Robitussin, which was actually just Tussin, the Hillbillys not being a name-brand family. I tell you what...I thought I had no taste until I got a half-dose of that Tussin in me. Ptooey! Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to drink Tussin.
I will survive. But The Pony has injured himself in his helping. He slammed his elbow into the stair post, and has a cut on his arm. A CUT! I feel guilty for not hoofing up the stairs myself to get my own tasteless supper. My eyes weep for him.
No wonder he shies away from helping people.