I am tired. I don’t know if I still techinically have bronchitis, or if it’s officially pneumonia, or if it’s actually nothing at all. But I’ve been sick for a freaking month and coughing up disgustingness from my lungs, some of which is blood-tinged and some fluorescent yellow, and last week I seemed to break or bruise a rib in a wild coughing spasm, which now constantly hurts my chest. Especially when I move, lift my arms, or breathe.
I went to a walk-in clinic last night, against my better judgment, because my chest really really hurt and the interweb told me to seek “immediate medical advice.” As predicted, the doctor said, “you have a chest infection.” I asked if it was pneumonia, and he said, well, maybe. I asked if my rib was fractured. He said maybe. As an afterthought, he took my temperature. It was okay. Not normal, just ‘okay.’ “Come back if you don’t get better.” Which is what the last doctor said. I hate doctors. I hate doctors so very much.
My puppy is sick. I was away from home for a day and a half, during which my puppy decided to get sicker than I’ve ever seen him before. I arrived home to a house full of diarrhea and vomit, some of which was blood-stained, and a dehydrated puppy who could barely wag his tail hello. I am the worst puppy-mummy ever. I am so, so sorry. I then borrowed emergency money from my mother to take my puppy to the vet, so he could get IV fluids and three types of medication, because I am the worst, most incompetent and neglectful puppy mummy ever. Also, I skipped work to do this, because I am also a terrible employee and adult.
So, today was my first day at work since being on vacation for a week and then taking an emergency day off to take care of my dog who was suddenly ill. But my vacation wasn’t especially happy or restful - mostly because the latter part of it was spent moving my sister into residence at her new university, which is three hours away and involves travelling extensively by foot, skytrain, bus, ferry, bus, and another freaking bus (I don’t drive, because I’m a terribly incompetent adult).
And this was not only physically exhausting, what with 300 pounds of luggage (did I mention the pneumonia?), but also emotionally hard, because I love my sister lots, and now she’s far away, and the house is all quiet after two months of constant companionship, and university is hard and I want her to be happy and I’m all maternally with my worry and obsession.
Arriving at work, I was not happy to be there, because it was only nine a.m. and ideally I’d sleep in till three. But I was happy to see people I missed, and happy to go about my job competently and responsibly without any major emotional upsets.
Until, at 11am, my boss decided to mistakenly send a reply-all email that was meant only for my supervisor’s eyes. The email was about me. The email was sent to all of my coworkers and sort-of-coworkers, and me, too. And in a short and sweet way, it said: “We should really force Ivy to go to this workshop on Basic [quality that is essential to doing her job well which she obvious lacks to an extreme degree, as indicated by my sending this email]. What do you think?”
In a hasty cover-up attempt which involved sending a second copy of the exact same email to all of my coworkers and sort-of-coworkers and myself again, my boss then replied-all: “Sorry about that. I meant that EVERYONE should take that workshop. In fact, I’m cancelling your staff meeting and making everyone go, even though several of you have requested educational workshops on other subjects and staff meetings are kind-of important. So, screw you all. But not specifically Ivy. Yes.”
So I spent my lunch hour crying, in the staff room, because the bathrooms were all full and all the exits were blocked by unavoidable interaction with people with eyes. And whenever I tried not to cry I ended up crying harder, which was awkward and causing much facial puffiness, and then I would try and reassure myself by saying my boss and job and ability to do basic essential skills weren’t that important, and that I could find another job, and then the prospect of leaving my job and all its implications sent me into a fresh batch of tears.
My supervisor entered the staff room and witnessed me crying, said nothing and quickly left. And then a coworker entered the staff room and witnessed me crying, and wordlessly fled the awkwardness. And then the rest of the day was spent surrounded by coworkers, only one of whom actually brought up the email, advising me to talk to my supervisor, which I declined to do (whilst crying).
And now I am home, with my sick puppy and my empty apartment and my bronchitis and pneumonia and fractured rib and some stains from the puppy diarrhea that I still can’t get off my floor, and the place is a mess and I need to recycle and do the dishes and my laundry’s not done and it’s all stupid and I hate everything.
But mostly, I hate work, and life, and anything that’s worth caring about or trying hard to do well. Because, inevitably, people fail, and then they feel all the worse for having tried so hard. Or something cynical like that. Peace out.