When it isn't even spring

This is not only a reference to the amazing (and kind of creepy) warm weather we've had this November, but also to the fact that I've been running a low-grade fever for a couple of days. "Low" as in nearly 101. I'm going to the doctor tomorrow morning for the second time in two weeks, and this time I intend to stay there until someone gives me a better diagnosis than "Well, let's see if it's still a problem after you're done with radiation."

This difficult time (I have been trending lower for more than two weeks now) has also brought something else into perspective; that people around me rather expect me to be tough and cheerful, to have a "good attitude", to "bounce back." And I rather expect this of myself -- at least, I don't want to disappoint people. So, I've been trying to work when I wasn't really well enough to work, and trying to do all the chores when I wasn't really well enough to do all the chores. The result has been exhaustion when I was expecting to feel stronger, and a lack of patience with myself and others.

This problem is compounded, in our household, by the fact that Bravest, in dealing with his disability, has lived his life with the idea that there's some sort of moral failing involved in asking for and receiving help. For anything. Mostly, this has served him well. When you ask for help, you put yourself in the hands of the person you have asked to help you. Especially in the case of a sensory disability, this gives the "helper" enormous power over the "helpee".

But, just as I had to learn in my days of poverty how to be a gracious receiver and still retain my independence, this seems to be the time for me and perhaps for Bravest to learn that sometimes you can't be tough. You have to admit that you can't, and ask for help. Which may come up again this weekend, as right now I very much doubt if I can do the grocery shopping without falling over.

Oh, why should I have spring fever, when it isn't even spring...