An illness entirely of my own fault

After coughing and hacking for nearly three weeks, I finally at my husband's insistence, went to the doctor yesterday. By the time I got there, I already knew I had pneumonia. I seem to get pneumonia the way most people get a head cold. And I almost always know when I've got it. It's just a certain feeling. But after tests breathing into a funny little machine and waiting for several hours for a chest xray, it was confirmed and I was sent home with the standard antibiotics.

The view that this is an illness of my own fault is not mine exclusively. I think it's bad karma from wishing I could be sick in bed for a while to enjoy the new books I have ordered. But my husband has another idea: entertaining. That's right: I have entertaining-induced pneumonia. According to him, I have worn myself out with parties, holiday dinners, holiday events at school, and probably even holiday decorating. All of this, he says, is unnecessary and clearly leads to illness in my case. (I'll concede there may be a pattern. I did spend last New Year's Eve in the hospital emergency with a fever of 103 and, of course, pneumonia.) But fine, I said, I'd rather go down serving drinks and tasty appetizers than be healthy and miss all the holiday fun.

Big S. has generously handed me a reprieve from driving Sophie to her Saturday classes so I can stay home and rest. Whether I can go to our gang's big Yankee Swap party tonight is still to be determined. I'm convinced I can put on my fancy clothes and be propped up on the coach--maybe.

So I'm back on those cards, which will certainly be in people's mailboxes by Christmas New Year's.