071224

Christmas Eve.

I woke up late morning. My only thought was to eat something so I can take my medicine--the flu symptoms had come back. After eating a cereal bar and two tangerines, however, I fell back asleep on the sofa.

After a disturbing dream full of anger and resentment, I woke up at 4 in the afternoon. My body had completely given in to the illness during my nap, and I felt pretty darn awful about the dream, too. I did not want to drive out to my sister's house. I came very close to calling to say I wasn't going to make it. But I changed my mind. If anything, I would be fed better over there than I could feed myself with my given condition.

I was only good until the end of dinner. As soon as the fork and knife went resting juxtaposed on the side of the plate, I excused myself and went to sleep in the guest room. The task of sitting up had become too much of a demand on my body. So I went away, asking them to wake me when dessert was being served. Before my consciousness blacked out again, I silently wished for someone to have a better Christmas than me.

When I woke up, thankfully feeling a bit better, everyone had either gone home or gone to bed, except my sister. We sipped Aberlour 10 year Scotch (best she had in her cupboards), watched a couple episodes of Frasier (our old favorite--she and I often felt like Frasier and Niles of our family) and just chatted about things. I told her again about my particular dislike for OC, not that anything could be done about it.

I turned down her invitation to stay the night--I much preferred my own bed. On my drive home, I thought about the year Christmas lost its meaning for me. It happened way too early for me, in 1984.

Winds are gusting again.