Good Grief

Saturday ended with a stuffy nose. Not too crazy, considering it is winter. But the next morning I woke up sicker, sleepier, and more annoyed than ever.  My chest felt like it was being ripped apart and my throat even worse, so I opened a box of cereal and poured myself a bowl, much to the discontent of my younger brother.
"It's FAST SUNDAY! You can't eat!"
I opened my mouth and nothing came out. Not even a squeak. I soon gave up on talking and progressed in shaking the crumbs out of the bottom of the box.
"TESSAAAAAA!" Braden protested. He continued to yell disapprovingly as I got a piece of paper out and explained in writing that I didn't have to fast when sick.
Later my dad asked me the same thing, wondering why I had eaten breakfast. I scribbled "My throat kills" on a piece of paper only to see my dad raise an eyebrow.
"Kills? What does that even mean?" I shook my head. I guess Dad is just out of the loop, I thought and replaced the word with "hurts considerably".

When Mom came downstairs she asked if I could talk and I shook my head. She pressured me, "Say 'Good morning, mother.'"
My voice sounded like an old man on his death bed mixed with a mad scientist mixed with the grim reaper. "Ghouuogh--" I broke into a fit of coughing.

My mom was sick too and insisted I stay home. I didn't object and gathered all necessary items.

Tissues, remote control, slippers, and large trashcan for stashing the bajillions of tissues I o-so-gracefully emptied my nose into.

I even found myself with a new best friend.

Yep. There's Herman. I carried it around like a child carries a blanket so Janell gave it a name and even drew a family of faces on each side of the box.

The day was long and boring. Being Sunday, my mom and I decided not to watch TV and instead had a marathon of our series of pioneer movies. We practically took turns sleeping through each one.

I found my voice about five hours later, but it was off and on for hours. At the end of the day I took cough medicine and was out cold.

Curse winter.