My week started out rather excellently. I celebrated my 55th birthday, or as my brother put it, I was now "double nickels." My sister came down from Corvallis and took me to lunch; I got phone calls from my siblings and my daughter; and of course, all the Facebook well-wishers. I was planning a two-day trip to the coast JUST FOR ME, and the weather outside was fine. I was so excited about the idea of being near the ocean that I didn't even care if the weather held. I was feeling really good on Monday.
Til about Tuesday.
Tuesday came with sneezes and sniffles, and Tuesday evening was spent outdoors at a small community event where I stood for over two hours without a sweater or jacket.
Wednesday, the mack truck hit. Full on sinus and head cold situation! I lay in bed all day, canceling hair appointments and missing yoga class and missing choir again (I've made it one out of three times this season). I surrounded myself with Kleenex, hot tea, my diffuser and peppermint oil, Arbonne immunity boosters, a cat, and my laptop with Netflix binge watching on the horizon.
Thursday arrived, and little to no improvement. More cancellations, extreme lethargy, and a lack of any enthusiasm for the beautiful, sunny weather outside. My breathing was hard fought and my headache was increasing. I remained grateful for leftovers and an abundance of tea bags. I wasn't at all sure I'd brought my Neti Pot with me from Virginia.
I felt depressed about the isolation and loneliness, frustrated that I was missing opportunities to stretch instead of laying like a lump, and slightly concerned this would affect my trip to the coast. I had been telling myself that even if it were stormy or so foggy I couldn't see the ocean, I would still BE there. Regardless of my low feelings, I was getting by.
But there was a problem. I was down to my last box of Kleenex and its backup, my last roll of toilet paper.
As I lay in my next of tangled sheets and blankets, cracker crumbs and cat hair sharing my space, every surface from the bedside table to the floor to the raft of my bed covered in crumpled, discarded tissues, I contemplated the likelihood of pulling on some yoga pants, a sweatshirt and a hat and running to the store, but the thought of getting out of bed and having to exert the energy it would take to get there was too much to bear. Still, paper towels can be rough on the nose. And come to think of it, I was down to my last roll of those as well!
Then the unimaginable happened. A friend texted to see if I needed anything. That in and of itself would not be an unusual circumstance in most people's lives. But here, where I still felt like the new kid on the block, in an apartment building full of ghost neighbors I could hear stomping and shuffling, but never saw, it was a new and unfamiliar sensation. Someone was offering to help me, and with such delicate items. How did she know that I needed the toilet paper because I was going to have to use it as backup for the Kleenex when it ran out?
I immediately took her up on her offer, asking for two boxes of Kleenex and a 4-pack of toilet paper. I assured her that she could leave the delivery outside the door and that I would leave a $5 bill for her.
Within the hour, there was a 12-pack of toilet paper and an 8-pack of Kleenex and a $5 bill--my $5 bill--shoved back under the door. A note was scribbled out on the back of a grocery receipt. It said, "This is your housewarming gift."
By Friday, I was able to rise up, take a much needed shower, launder the sheets, and get to my rescheduled hair appointment. I realized that if I took it easy over the weekend, I would most likely be fine by the time I went to the coast. I never did actually run out of either Kleenex or toilet paper. But the gift my friend gave me was so much more than paper. It was caring and community. It was friendship and sisterhood. It was a beacon in the fog.
