Day 29: Covid, Cats & Constipation: The Triple C Nobody Asked For

This morning’s wake-up call was less “birds chirping in the sunshine” and more “a certain furry someone’s butt parked directly on my face.”

Yes, once again, my cat decided my head was prime real estate.

Combine that with Covid roundhouse-kicking my immune system, and you’ve got a solid reason to stay in bed until 2054.

Covid + summer heat?

That’s not just a bad combination - it’s an unholy alliance.

I woke up feeling like I’d been baked in an oven set to “fan-assisted Satan.” My nose was stuffed, my ear was throbbing, my throat felt like I’d been gargling hedge trimmers, and my body sent a very clear message:

“Should’ve rested yesterday, genius.”

Still, I dragged myself out of bed and straight to the scale because apparently, I enjoy pain.

Week 4 weigh-in: down 0.9 lbs.

Total: 12.1 lbs lost.

Slow and steady, my friends - like a glamorous tortoise in leopard print pyjamas.

To celebrate, I ran a hot bath, hoping it might wash away my misery.

Then slapped my shiny new estrogen patch on my butt like the proud, hormonally-balanced queen I am.

Treated myself to a coffee, which I promptly didn’t enjoy and didn’t finish.

I repeat: I DIDN’T FINISH MY COFFEE.

Who even am I?

Someone call CSI: Caffeine Scene Investigation.

Breakfast was my loyal protein bowl - because when your body is failing you, at least your breakfast doesn’t.

Then came a flurry of emails and work tasks, all completed while looking like a Victorian ghost that’s been trapped in an attic for 150 years.

By early afternoon, my body staged a coup.

I used my lunch break for a power nap, which in my current state felt like entering another dimension.

Lunch itself was a delicate thin bagel loaded with salad, chicken, mozzarella, tomato and pesto.

Ate half, handed the other half to my other half, because apparently sharing is caring when you’re too knackered to chew.

Dragged myself into my final 1.5-hour meeting of the day, which was allegedly about Agile and something involving a fruit salad.

I couldn’t tell you more, because at one point I was literally holding my eyelids open with my fingers like a malfunctioning Looney Tunes character.

And yes, my camera was on.

No regrets.

As the day rolled on, Covid decided to kick it up a notch: fever, stomach pain, constipation.

A glamorous trifecta.

I jabbed my thigh with my new 5mg dose and instantly got that taste in my mouth - you know, the weird metallic one that screams “congratulations, you’ve been chemically upgraded.”

By 5 p.m., I was a husk of a human.

Collapsed on the sofa like a Victorian maiden with “the vapours,” clutching my water bottle and contemplating my life choices.

Dinner was healthy chicken ramen, but half the portion went straight to the fridge because apparently, “Friday portions” are now half-sized and sadness-flavoured.

I think I’ll stick with water until further notice.

By 7 p.m., I was in bed.

Seven.

P. M.

Who am I, your nan?

Maybe I’ll watch TV.

Maybe I’ll stare at the wall.

Maybe I’ll just let this stupid bat-derived disease dictate my next move.

Oh, and now my favourite human is sick too.

Sorry, babe.

Misery loves company, but I promise I didn’t mean to share that much.

Day 29 rating: 1/10.

Would not recommend.

With Love,

JABatha Christie