I hate sick days. I just lay in bed all day feeling guilty about all of the work I could be doing and promising myself this is my last sick day ever. It’s worse today because Scooter is sick with me. For some reason he has been throwing up every morning this week. I wonder if he’s pregnant?
Today I made a deal with myself that if I were going to take a sick day, I’d at least write a blog. If you know me, that should make a lot of sense. I also promised myself that I’d clean out the entire office and work out for at least an hour. Well, I’m sick, so none of that happened, but I am making soup. That counts as productivity, right?
Why am I like this? First, I blame working at a hospital. Though I wasn’t a medical provider when I worked at Barnes Jewish in St. Louis (I worked in the domestic violence program), the culture of “Oh, boo hoo, poor little you being sick. Loser.” got to me. My colleagues in the program of course weren’t like that, but I think anyone who has worked in a hospital setting would agree that the climate is just different. So what if you’re sick – the people you need to serve are sicker.
I’d also like to put the onus on a certain man in my life who has always liked to tell me to pull up my “big girl britches” and suck it up (!). Ha, ha. I’ll let you guess who that is (here’s a hint – he would take me to church but always wrote notes for work during the service). Though he’s never said this to me about being sick, it truly is the general rule by which I live my life. He would be so proud!
I guess the final person I should blame is…well, me. Yeah, I’m all about public health. That is, I’m all about public health until my health endangers the public. Half the time it’s just allergies, right? To admit sickness is to admit defeat. Weakness. The potential for a lack of productivity.
I am a machine. I get things accomplished. Who has time to be sick? Well, today I do. Because I am sick. I am in bed. And I am not working. Well, sort of.
But really, this IS my last sick day ever.