Getting wrecked and getting on with it.

Sometimes rock bottom is a fun place to be.

Lucy caught me dozing on the couch next to her, overcome with the signature chills of an impending virus about to wreck my week. “Mama, you sleepy?”

“Yeah babe,” I told her, my eyes closed. “Mama’s not feeling very well.”

“Wanna go in your bed and take a nap? I can take one with you,” she offered, tenderly. I thought this might be a good idea. She was recovering from a virus, and it appeared I was getting onboarded by one, so we could both use a few winks. We crawled into my bed and I went right into the fetal position as chills took over. Lucy proceeded to talk my ear off-- real stream of consciousness type stuff. “Can you believe the tongue is the longest muscle in our body?” she’d say, while making half-hearted attempts to cover her coughs that still managed to hit me square in the face and blow my hair back. After thirty minutes of that, I rose out of bed like a zombie, wrapped a thick robe around me, and left the room while she cut herself off mid-sentence to follow suit. “I used clay for my diorama because I think it’s much more realistic … oh, are we getting up from our nap now? Okay!”

Seven days prior, Poppy caught a loud, wild cold, where she coughed, sneezed and snotted like she was in a comedy sketch. Work and routine came to an abrupt stop to care for her. After the fifth day, she was back to her old self again and went back to school. The previous evening, relieved, exhausted and slightly nauseous by the fervent dosing of immune support supplements, I crashed on the couch where Lucy crept up next to me, wrapping her arms around me. I thought she was probably missing some attention since Poppy had the Jim Carrey of colds, but within moments of her on me, my cleavage began to sweat as my hair fuzzed, coiling at the temples. Lucy had a fever. And it lasted three days. Once it lifted, a horrible deep cough came over her, that was so relenting it was like someone was using a jack hammer in my kitchen, but never took breaks or went to bed. I don’t remember much during this time because I blocked it out as a survival mechanism, but there was a point Rob and I looked at each other with the terrorized tenderness of a married couple whose plane was most definitely going down.

At some point, Lucy’s coughs subsided enough to let her sleep and I fell asleep with her until jolted awake by the presence of a person hovered over me.

“Mama,” Poppy said weakly, “I don’t feel so good.”

“Again?” I opened up my comforter so she could slide into bed with me, hoping it was nothing serious. Within moments my cleavage began to sweat as my hair, yet again, fuzzed, coiling at the temples.

Turns out, Lucy didn’t catch Poppy’s cold- she brought home something new and poor Poppy caught both.

The next morning, I drank my coffee black from a tin cup, battered and hopeless, like a sleep deprived nurse working a tent during the revolutionary war after small pox blew through. “What if I catch this?” I asked Rob with a trembled lip. What immune system could hold up to 10+ days of fevered girls asking you to hold them while they cough and sneeze directly into your open eyeballs?

Not mine. I got wrecked.

Two full weeks have now gone by. It wasn’t COVID, but we were unlucky enough to catch “a myriad of cold and flu viruses going around,” our doctor lamented. Our lungs sound good, nothing left to do but let our bodies heal. I’ve been looking a hot mess, however. Tattered, a mere shell of my former self. “How many fevers have you had in those same pajamas?” Rob asked me (he got sick too, but a much milder version (BUT OF COURSE HE DID)).

“At least three,” I managed to say, hoarse and weak before rolling into a coughing fit.

“Why don’t you take a good bath and slip into something fresh,” he suggested, in a way that made it seem like he was offering a kindness, but he was mostly motivated by a desire to not watch True Detective next to someone so ripe.

“Don’t despair,” my mom told me. “Just surrender. This is life. And once the fog is lifted, get back to following where God is leading you.”

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I’ve written before, and many of my talks at events have been about, life being like a game of Chutes and Ladders. And since my dad’s passing, I think I might have hit the biggest chute yet, the one that goes alllll the waaaaay down to the bottom. During this time, I not only grieved my father, but was forced to grieve over many hopes deferred. Opportunities I pinned my hopes on, obvious shoo-ins, fell through. Some falls, are so long, so hard, we’re rendered so helpless, we have no choice, but to let God come scoop us up.

All limp, sprawled out at the bottom of our chute. A pathetic, but sincere, surrender.

Maybe it’s weird, but I find myself a little excited. The chute was a nightmare, obviously. But it forced me to accept that the old game is over. Of course, it’s sad. And yes, it’s disappointing. Nobody chooses this.

But I want to play again. I can’t help myself. I want to know what all God has for me. I want to be a good, faithful steward of what’s been given me. I don’t want chutes to ruin me, I want them to refine me. To strengthen my perseverance, my faith-- I want the rough edges of my character to be sanded down, soft and sweet and good.

Besides, even though the chute took me back to the beginning, I’m not the same woman I was when I first started. I’m wiser, smarter, more disciplined, more faithful, more humbled, more talented, more skilled, more loyal, more compassionate, more experienced, more spiritually mature, more emotionally equipped, and with far more resources to serve.

It’s a completely different game!

So, I grabbed the dice, roll. Boom!

“Entire family catches a “myriad of colds and flus.”

Well, crap.

Didn’t think I’d hit one of the small chutes on the first roll of the dice, but This is life.

Don’t despair, just surrender, my mom says.

Make your way back to where God is leading you.

So, I did. I waited for my body to heal. Then today, I felt okay. I sent the girls off to school, took a shower, put on some makeup and got dressed. Sat at my computer. Stared blankly for a long while. Then typed. Just a little something.  

Here it is, just this. A teensy ladder, no big deal.

I wonder where I’m being led? I guess I better roll again tomorrow.

Have we met? I’m Anna Lind Thomas, a humor writer out of Omaha, Nebraska. I’m on the shortlist of USA Today’s top ten funniest women writers, and author of the best selling book We’ll Laugh About This (Someday) and my latest - I’m Not Ready for This. I perform hilarious and inspirational speeches (and readings) regularly at both secular and Christian events. Reach out to book me for your next event here, and don’t forget to say hi on Facebook and Instagram.