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So, it's been awhile since I've been sick. Probably a year and a half. It pretty much blows being sick as an adult. I remember that it wasn't all that terrible as a kid. My mom would flutter around fluffing up the pillows and programming the station to looney tunes. I remember one year though I had the flu and I went through an entire box of kleenex during one week. My nose was so raw it almost fell off. And the only thing I wanted to eat was a bean burrito from Taco Bell. Yes, I must have been sick. It's always been hard for me to miss school or work. I just feel so guilty and terrible about it that it really just ruins the fun of being at home in bed. So, I most likely had bronchitis this week. I went to work every day because I am a self-diagnosed superwoman who abhors the thought of asking for help, especially at a new job. Being sick is somewhat comical though. It changes things. Like control over bodily functions. Like the fact that I went to sleep at 7pm on a nightly basis. Like the fact that my house was dirty, calls went unanswered, and I didn't eat a single vegetable for 4 days. Like the fact that I ate cough drops like I was trying to taste the rainbow. Like the fact that I actually had to think before I spoke because I only had so much voice power. Like the fact that I was a little spacey from the antibiotics, the cough syrup, the advil, the cough drops, and the mucinex (to name a few). Like the fact that if a Christmas tree will make me feel better, than a Christmas tree there will be. Like the fact that I didn't even get up to watch the office on Thursday night because I couldn't make it from the bed to the couch without falling asleep between steps. Like the fact that I could barely finish my food on several occasions (including pancakes, pumpkin pancakes). Strange, I know.

So, I went to a funeral visitation for M.,one of my former patients last night. (Luckily the viewing was at 6pm so I could make it to the bed in time. Am I using humor to avoid painful feelings?) M. left treatment about a month ago and is already dead. I hugged his widow who I had come to know over the 28 days that I worked with the family and I got to lay eyes on their beautiful little girl with chubby cheeks and a sad smile. I kind of expected M. to relapse, but I didn't expect him to die. There are certain patients who exit the doors of treatment and I fear for their lives because I can see the hands of addiction sliding around their necks. But, I didn't so much see that with M. He had hope. I have to wonder what went wrong. Why did he die?What kind of anguish was he in that day, what bondage? And I as much as I know about addiction and powerlessness, I can't help but feel angry right now. Addiction is a selfish, mean, horrible disease. It thinks only of self-survival. It doesn't care if others suffer, if the addict dies. And, now J. is left without a husband and little E. is left without a father. A father who overdosed and died on heroine. What a shitty way to die.