"It will get worse before it gets better."
This is true of many things. Today it is true of pneumonia. There is no rabbit emerging from my magic hat, instead, there is a sort of shriveled, husk of a woman who has been battling walking pneumonia for well over a week, and awoke today feverish and thirsty.
No Frank. Not that sort of shivering.
I pushed too hard. Expected too much of a body which has seen too much sickness before this silly infection took hold. I knew I could tough it out--and I did. After all, it's not cancer, right? But that got me precisely nowhere. I take that back, that got me to this waking helltrip with no Beatrice to guide me to paradise--no Virgil to hold my hand--just a whole lot more Motrin and broth than a body should consume. So I lay my illness at my own feet as some macabre trophy of my own stubborn nature. My brother calls me "ATSAH-BE-YAZ," which in Dine translates to "little eagle," but in this context means "little stubborn." He's not wrong. I take on too much, delegate too little. In doing this, I devalue my own health and time, and it's a learning curve to let others take on more, or to ask for help. It's that thing no one can write on an application "definitely a team player, but likely to forget that there are others to help take the slack."
I think it's some sort of Rosie the Riveter syndrome. "You can do it!" "All alone!" "Quityerbitchin!" Where Sheryl Sandberg preaches the value of leaning in, I'm leaning away.
And I'm tired of it. So I'm going to ask for help, and accept it when it's offered, because I am exhausted. And also, I can't feel my face.