By Sarah Sexton
“Is this you?” asked the Russian.
“Yes and no,” I managed to reply, bent over at my knees in a motivational self-talk. I had climbed three flights of stairs to reach my closet bedroom in our weekend cottage. It was cold, small, dark. I was relegated to the tower for the unfortunate event of being the last to arrive for our girls’ weekend.
“I can be difficult, annoying, outspoken, strong and quite different from others. But right now, I am very, very sick. Normally, I can walk up three flights of stairs without needing a ventilator. I have three stories at my house as well, but this flu bug I caught is destroying me. I am going to see my GP on Monday.”
“The doctor will do nothing for you,” The Russian said as she sat up in her cot that was exactly eight cm away from mine. Why did she want to sleep in the same room as me? I already infected my friend, Christina. Blistered with fear, I thought Christina was going to be toe tagged, escorted home in a body bag. All my years of teaching and I have never been so sick, or eye witnessed my friend being so ill. Christina did not sleep well next to me the first night and arrangements needed to be made to ensure Christina receive a good night sleep, mending the viral flu.
The Russian had a choice to sleep with me or the British mate who may or may not have a snoring issue. There is no debate that she had a very large bedroom with two single beds. There was no debate. I had Cinderella’s room at best, the flower in the attic and was made to share with Christina. It is also confirmed my first night I snored loudly due to my illness. The second morning when I woke up, squinting to view the table lamp thrown on the floor with all my pillows……thinking out loud….”Wtf happened?!” The Russian confirmed I snored twice. Twice. Soft snores. This was a good sign that I was on the mend. And a taken compliment that the Russian chose to sleep next to me in harsh conditions.
After my vision was restored, I quickly put myself together and packed my luggage. I needed ever so badly to exit the weekend. To feel sick at home. Christina and I left as quickly as our exhausted, beaten by the flu bodies could. Honestly, it was not a fun trip home. Hard rain. An American driver. Hot flashes. Chills and shakes. As you may conclude, we survived.
It was a bad choice to travel to Windemere when I was extremely sick and celebrate my beautiful friend, Michelle’s birthday.
Abbey Row 