Do you know where I am right now? Bed. I have been on bed rest for two days now, going on three, with a low grade fever and a hacking cough. My poor, little asthmatic lungs are in agony, and I’m sitting here propped up with pillows. A humidifier, a box of tissues, and an inhaler rest at my side. I’m a freaking invalid. My mother tells me I look like death warmed over and throws tissues my way  while maintaining a distance of several feet. And in addition to of all of this? I’m facing surgery on Friday. Did I mention that’s the 13th? Friday the 13th, mhm.

Oh yeah, and I’ve been exposed to swine flu.

Now, normally I’m not of the superstitious ilk, but I’m going to be honest as I sit here wheezing: going under anesthesia on Friday isn’t sounding swell right now. But then again, I’ve taken the time off work, I’m in Atlanta… this surgery needs to happen!

So can I please take the liberty of complaining about how the timing of this is COMPLETELY inappropriate?
DEAR GOD, waiting another  week to strike me with the plague would have been much appreciated, thank you.

And do you know what happened today? Lean in and let me tell you what happened today:

So, I’m sleeping–because that’s pretty much all I can do–and my mother comes in and tells me my father’s pastor friend is downstairs and wants to pray for me. And I’m all like, hey, sure, he can pray for me, but from downstairs. I’m not moving. But thankssomuch.

So a couple hours later I make the massive effort to go downstairs, and as Mom pushes homemade chicken soup my way, I notice a little bowl of olive oil on the table. And I’m all like, “What’s this for?” And my papa says, “That was for us to pray over you with.”

And I’m all like, “Um, I’m sorry, excuse me? You were going to anoint me with extra virgin olive oil? Whose idea was that?” And he says, “James, from the bible.” And I look at him and am like “You’re not serious.” And he chuckles, but you know something? He was serious.

I’m sorry, but it’s all a little too “Middle Ages/exorcise the demon out of thee” for me.

So I drag myself back upstairs and hide in my bedroom, which is where I am now. And I’m sitting here wheezing and dreading dying under anesthesia on Friday. Or that they may NOT let me have surgery at all, which might be worse. And I’m wondering if God is going to smite me for refusing to have hands laid on me.

And this is what my life has come to.
The end.