Few moments in our ordinary lives can make us feel as lonely as when we're sick and single.
I can remember the late night trips for over the counter meds that were pointless anyway, stocking my cart with orange juice and vitamins, and sneezing ever so un-gently into my pile of crumpled bills before handing them off to the mortified cashier.
I can remember lugging it all back into my tiny apartment, and passing out more from the exhaustion than the NyQuil itself, realizing again how sometimes it just sucks to be alone.
It was a time of 3 a.m. fevers consoled only by the lamp on my nightstand and hair not-held while I bent over the seat usually reserved for just sitting.
Sore necks were soothed with ibuprofen and vodka on the rocks, not massages and heating pads fresh from the microwave.
Sickness was a time of self-medicating and hoping.
Hoping that it would pass quickly, without much fuss, and that I would not be forced to beg the next man who smiled at me to be my partner and my hospice nurse.
And when I finally found someone worth keeping, someone who promised to be there when I'm at my worst, I find I am only reminded of these things when I no longer am forced to suffer through them.
Instead of lonely nights spent sick in solitude, I think of them when I experience the opposite.
When sickness is not a reminder of loneliness, but of feeling loved instead.