Yesterday cleared to our first bright morning in ten days of dreary clouds and rain. I had a two-column to-do list. Unfortunately I woke up sick.

I staggered out to walk the dogs a bit before six. Then I read an email from Lucy, broke out in a cold sweat, and was so lightheaded I had to lie down on the dining room floor for fifteen minutes to recover. My hair was wet and my nightgown soaked. Then I got up and read an email from Jon, and ditto. I had felt peculiar the previous night — like a dog sensing an approaching storm — and had slept in Jon and Amanda’s room just in case. It turned out to be an intestinal flu.

I tend to feel outraged when I am sick. What? I don’t have time for this! Especially for something so debilitating, with chills making my head swim and my hands shake. I often think I really wouldn’t mind a sick day — if I could lie in my comfy sheets in bed, be lazy, and read. In other words, not be too sick. But I am realizing that I never have these delicious, cozy sick days because if I’m only slightly sick, I get out of bed and work.

Even yesterday afternoon, though still weak and trembly and somewhat nauseous, I got up and worked in the basement unpacking boxes and then switched to carpentry, reinforcing my grandmother’s bookcase. My pace was slow and my brain was foggy, except for the one thought: I have to push on. The list, the list!

Today I’m at 90% and on the road to Vermont for a medical appointment. Tomorrow our boarding school students return.

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