Killing the birds

Rocks and rucks and rest

The year is off to a rocky start, full of more rest than I wanted, and I hesitate to put this in writing but I am combatting conspiracies and superstitions so here goes: I haven’t been this sick since 2020.

On the last Saturday of 2024 I put fifteen pounds of dumbbells in my backpack and climbed the steepest, longest hill I could get to. I hiked five miles and Scout and I found our first ever shed horn, all by ourselves. I found it, to be specific, but I let her pick it up and think she was fabulous because I know her need for approval. I put it in my backpack and brought it home to show my family, who let me fabulous and special, too. We added it to the family collection.

It was my first “ruck” of what was going to be a new season for me, where I combine my love of long walks with some weight bearing treks to kill two birds with one stone, and I felt great. Rucking is just walking with weight, getting cardio and strength training done at once, and I love it.

Well. I love it in theory. I’ve only been on one ruck so far.

Two days after I climbed the mountain, my cough from November returned. I don’t know how to explain it but it was the exact same cough I’d had for a week after Thanksgiving, as though it had only been dormant for a month. A few days later I had the stomach flu and spent most of 24 hours lying on the cold bathroom tile, remembering the last time I’d been this intimate with the grout—January 2020.

The next night, I coughed for more hours than I slept, and I haven’t slept through the night without coughing for two full weeks now. The doctors assure me my lungs sound good. I have bronchitis, they say, and it could last a couple months with this strain of the flu, they say. That sounds ridiculous to me but last night I drank the prescribed cough syrup with codeine, after a second visit to urgent care, and I maybe slept a little better.

When I made my first trip to urgent care, I got a flat tire on the way. My husband had been warning me for a month that I needed new tires but I kept putting it off, because I only want to go to town one day a week and that one day is full of shopping for the deli and running all the errands, and I couldn’t bring myself to wait at the tire store in addition to all that. Plus, I am a girl who does not think about her tires. I know, it doesn’t make sense. I know, procrastinating important things like new tires is immature and foolish. I know.

My tire pressure warning went off on the interstate, telling me I was two pounds low, and I thought oh! today might be a good day to get new tires since I’m only in town for the doctor and don’t have a ton of other things to do. What a blessing, said the girl who never looks at her tires. I’ll kill two birds with one trip to town.

My car continued to tell me about the rapidly dropping pressure, dinging its warning loudly as the numbers plummeted. I broke out in a sweat. My stomach churned. Should I drive faster, or slower? Which exit will get me to the tire store the quickest? Please God help God oh God please help me.

I knew I wouldn’t make it to the tire store. I rolled into the car dealership on my rim, my skin pale as paper from sickness and stress. I was embarrassed and I didn’t even know if the dealer had tires or did that kind of thing, but the lady at the counter was so kind. She didn’t act like it was any big deal—like people roll in daily on threadbare tires that should have been replaced months ago but they’re too dumb and stubborn to do it—and of course they could replace my tires. They happened to have a set that was perfect for my vehicle.

I had a book with me for the wait at the urgent care, and I took my seat in the waiting room of the dealership with a few other people who were probably getting scheduled maintenance done on their vehicles, because they were older folks with more wisdom than I. They’re probably the kind of people who look at their tires regularly. I consoled my pride by reading my book while they were all staring at their phones, because I’m petty like that.

Coughing in public feels very taboo, like I might as well cover my head and call out “Unclean! Unclean!” to all who pass by. I tried to stifle it, sucking on my breath mints and convulsing into the bend of my arm. I didn’t plan to be in public that day. I did care about my germs and the health of others. I wanted the other customers to know all this but I could only keep my distance and choke down my coughs between trips to the restroom to cough in private.

It was a very expensive day, after the tires and the doctor visit. That first trip to urgent care landed me an antibiotic. I went again a few days ago because nothing had changed and I’m trying to do better at listening to my husband, and I came home with the cough syrup and the assurance that this could last awhile, sorry.

Anyways. I don’t have much to encourage anybody with except my own patience and commiseration, and my assent to rest in this first month of 2025. This year is off to a rough start for lots of us and my piddly sickness is among the least of our concerns, but it is frustrating to be “half-throttle”, as my husband has lovingly named my energy level.

This is a year of big change¹ for us and I want desperately to get a jump on all the work ahead, but instead I’m spending a lot of time in my chair, watching the band of bluejays take over the feeder. They have descended or spawned or sprung up unwanted, numerous and noisy, like troubles in a new year; or like too much of a good thing.

I love birds but bluejays are jerks.

I love rest but I’ve had enough, thank you.

When I get to feeling better, I’m going to figure out a way to get rid of those birds.

1. I’ll say in passing that we have sold the home we’ve lived thirteen years in, and I’ll write more about that when I have the energy.