I know, I know. Short term steroid therapy speeds recovery from nasty bouts of bronchitis and pneumonia, but ai-yi-yi, how I hate them!
When I take that tiny white pill I make the energizer battery bunny look like a slug. I can’t sit still, I can’t sleep and I can’t stop cleaning things.
Despite my fever and ferocious cough, I mowed the lawn and did five straight hours of non-stop yard work. Then I went inside and washed all the floors in my house. The next day I washed every window in my house and was still up at one-thirty in the morning polishing the outside of the glass panes by streetlight. The next day I washed and detailed my car and etcetera, etcetera, etcetera for the next seven days.
The steroid story never ends happily for me. At the end of the treatment I crash spectacularly, weepy and exhausted.
This morning the hubster found me slouched on the couch, surrounded by crumpled up tissues and crying into the crook of my arm between coughing fits.
I lifted my head, staring at him with my bloodshot eyes. He was spooked instantly.
“Uh-oh,” he whispered, slowly backing out of the room.
“Uh-oh is right buster!” I wailed. “I’m at DEFCON 2. Run for your life.”
And he did.