6 posts tagged “sick”

My trip to Spain was excellent. With the exception of my last two days, I had clear blue skies during the day, and cool nights. I extended my time in Granada, which I don't regret in the slightest, and loved Seville. I definitely hope to go back to both Granada and Seville at some point.

Cordoba was nice, but the only thing I felt was worth seeing was the mezquita. And I've done that, so now I don't need to go back. The two nights I spent there were the only nights I was bored in the slightest, or lonely. The hostels I stayed at in both Granada and Seville were awesome, and I met tons of new friends.

I might eventually get around to posting pictures, and more information about the trip, but that's not really why I'm writing. Since getting back from Spain, on March 1st, I've had a really bad month. Normally February is my tough time, but this year February creeped into March.

When I got back, I immediately had to step up my apartment search. I had started beforehand, but my cough kept me in bed a lot. There were days I visited four apartments, I was making dozens of phone calls, sending out masses of emails, living on apartment search sites, and setting up as many appointments as possible. I saw lots of nice places, some laughably small ones, a few roommate dealies that were okay but overpriced, and then I saw The One.

I walked into this apartment on March 11th, and immediately thought it was the nicest apartment I'd seen. One of the nicest studios I've seen in Paris, period. Clean, airy, bright, renovated, and in a great neighborhood. Even the price was totally reasonable. The only possible downside could be that it's on the 5th floor of a walk-up. That's the 6th floor to Americans. But I could even find a way to spin that into goodness, since lord knows I could use some more exercise.

The landlord said he would only contact the one person he chose for the apartment, and I came very, very close to not bothering to fill out the information sheet, thinking that there was no way this guy would pick me out of the 25 people there. But I filled it out, and told him that if he picked me I would be really happy. I left, and thought no more about it.

Until the next night, while tutoring Ella. I got a phone call, and the caller ID was from the landlord! Holy shit. I told Ella I had to take it, and almost blew a gasket when the landlord, Mr. W, told me he hadn't made his choice yet. He was down to four people, and couldn't decide between them. So, he was asking us each to write a motivation letter. For the apartment.

Part of me thought "you have got to be kidding me," but with Pauline's help, I whipped up a brilliant letter. As I sent it off, I told Pauline "I'm going to be really sad when I don't get this apartment." Oh, I forgot to mention that while I was on the phone, Mr. W decided to just ask two of us to write a letter, and so therefore I had a 50/50 shot.

About 15 minutes after sending the letter, I got a call saying that I was the One. And there began two and a half weeks of stressing that he would figure out I don't have a carte de sejour, and I would lose it. The worry was for naught, however. Although it took FOREVER, I signed the lease Saturday morning. Two and a half weeks after first seeing the apartment! 

All of the stress definitely got to me, and I got bronchitis. The cough I had before Spain lingered and evolved. I've gotten bronchitis at least once a winter since I was in 8th grade, when I had walking pneumonia. So the search and the bronchitis and the antibiotics all combined to make a rather sad Sophie. But all of this is really just the preamble to the real reason I had such a bad month. It's just hard to write about.

I lost a dear friend to cancer. Sylvia, who some of you will know as Benjamin's mother, died about two weeks ago. Over the years I've become close to the whole family, and have spent a lot of time with Sylvia. She had had breast cancer years ago, but it was in remission. Last year, though, she started having serious stomach problems, and was often unable to eat. In June the doctors confirmed that it was cancer. I got the email while I was in Santorini, and was really upset. But I felt optimistic, cause she was at the best cancer hospital in the country.

The first thing I did when my plane landed in Paris after Greece was call. And same thing when I had two days in town between New York and Ile de Ré. I visited for a few hours at home, and while I was sad to see how skinny she'd gotten, I was relieved that her personality was very much intact. And so began her second round of chemo. It went pretty well, and we had a lovely family dinner this fall. But shortly after, Sylvia was back in the hospital for more treatments.

I visited her a few times in the hospital, and as it turns out I never saw her at home again. Christophe and I had lunch the day before I went to Spain, and while I was away the cancer spread again, to her kidneys. About a week after my return I got a call from Christophe, saying that if I wanted to say goodbye I had to come then.

The doctors had given her a few hours, maybe a couple of days. But Sylvia held on for a week. It was awful, watching her get weaker and less and less aware. But I am so grateful that I was there. The first night I went, the night Christophe called, was the last time Sylvia knew who I was. She couldn't really talk, but she knew I was there.

I told her I loved her, and would miss her, and would watch out for Ben and Juliette. I told her that I would never forget her, and that our friendship would not end. I promised to continue telling her the crazy stories of trying to make my life work in France. And so far I've kept that promise. I still talk to her, and I still miss her.

I don't know how much she understood of what I said, but she must have felt my love for her. She brushed the tears off my cheeks, and looked into my eyes. I am just so grateful to Christophe for giving me the chance to properly say goodbye. Because over the next week, each time I visited she was less and less Sylvia.

I've never lost a friend before. A friend's sister, a great-grandmother . . . no one that close. I loved my great-grandmother very much, and I was 13 or so when she died. But while I can still hear her voice in head, and am so happy I got her hair (on my head, not in a drawer somewhere), I didn't truly know her. And she was in her 90s when she died, after having met most of her great-grandchildren. Sylvia was not ready to go. She had so much to live for, and so many people who love her.

Most of last year I was tutoring her in English. The French word toujours has two meanings in English, still and always. In French it's very easy to know which is meant, from the context. But Sylvia could NEVER get it right in English. I'm sad that I can't tease her about it anymore. I'm sad that she won't have the chance to get it right. I'm sad that she had to stop learning.

So, Sylvia, thank you. I miss you, and haven't really realized that you're gone forever. I Iove you, still and always. Thank you for being my friend.

I'm now back in Paris, having arrived Sunday morning. And it's so hard.

My mom had a major stroke, with no warning. Five weeks beforehand we were hiking over waterfalls in Morocco, and now . . . I don't want to be too specific, as my mom is a very private person, so I'll just say that she's making progress, but it's slow, as apparently most strokes are. My mom is young and healthy, so we're hoping she'll make a full recovery, and she's in one of the best rehab clinics in the country. The problem is she's been there almost a month now, and she desperately wants to go home.

My trip to New York was originally going to be just over two weeks, and I extended it to four. Most of that time was spent at the hospital, from 3 to 8 hours a day. I was able to see most of my friends (Jeff and Josh, you're up first next time!), which was fantastic. I really felt supported and loved by all my friends who made time to see me, planned special events near the hospital so I could attend, and sent their love and prayers to room 110A. Every bit helped, so thank you all.

My trip was obviously not the vacation I was expecting it to be. Passover, instead of the elaborate, hours-long meal it normally is, was different but no less meaningful this year. We read the prayers and sang the songs and drank grape juice next to my mom's hospital bed. As the youngest, I sang the Four Questions and made everyone listen to me sing Chad Gadya in Aramaic. I really love that song. I got my hair cut, and went shopping at Old Navy, and attended my 10-year high school reunion (pics to come!), but my mind was always with my mom.

Making the decision to come back was really hard. And leaving her that day to go to the airport was one of the hardest things I've ever done, if not the hardest. My mom is my best friend, and I love her so much. I am truly blessed to have such a wonderful relationship with her, and to know that we love and respect each other both as mother and daughter, and as two women who can make each other laugh.

I talked to a lot of people about what to do: my therapist, my mom's friends, her doctors, my friends . . . and everyone told me that I have to continue my life. And my life is in Paris, as crazy and random as that may be. My dad actually flat out told me that I couldn't stay by saying, "I won't have your life turn into a Victorian novel, with you as the spinster who gives up her life to take care of her ailing mother!" To which I replied, "I'm only 28! I'm hardly a spinster."

Living at home with my dad, just the two of us, was really good. We had just spent a lot of time together in January, obviously, but I think it was important for both of us to have someone to say goodnight to. And to share dog-walking responsibilities! I swear, Teddy is the cutest thing in the world, and kept us both laughing every day. Look at my little muffinhead!

My sister and I worked very well together, sharing the jobs that come with a sick family member, while dad took care of insurance, doctors, and paperwork. Mom was never alone, due to our constantly emailing schedules back and forth. We alternated nights, so that each of us could get some time with our friends, and dad filled in when we both had plans. And now I left it all to them, and I feel so incredibly guilty.

I call a few times a day, but mom has up to six hours of rehab therapy every day, and in between she tries to grab naps. So even when I'm able to get hold of her, we can only talk for a few minutes. And I miss her terribly.

How do I do this? How do I just continue on with my life here, knowing that dad and Tessa are still at the hospital daily? How do I leave my mom to battle this without me? If anyone has advice, I could really use it right about now.

The sky in Paris has been AMAZING this week. Granted, I've barely been outside, what with being STILL F**KING SICK! Turns out I have sinusitis, which is total bullcrap. My sinuses feel fine! I'm not sure how much I trust SOS Médécins, since I've now taken 3 doses of antibiotics and still feel sick. Not to mention the cortisone pill and cough syrup he prescribed. The upside to being so sick is that I have a doctor's note to miss school for tomorrow AND Wednesday. Score! Only 4 hours of teaching this week, for the price of 12. Ding ding ding!

Oh right, the sky. I first noticed it yesterday, when I went to the 24-hour pharmacy on the Champs Elysées to pick up my scrips. It had been raining, which I didn't realize, what with not going outside at all, so the sky was that weird yellow-grey it gets before a storm. I looked up, and saw a huge rainbow over Avenue des Ternes. Then, when leaving the pharmacy, I noticed that a whole bunch of people were standing around gawking at the Arc de Triomphe. Well, there are always people gawking at it, but when I turned to look, I saw why. The whole sky from Etoile to La Défense was like a painting. There were heavy purple-grey clouds from the tops of the buildings down to streetlight level, where the sky then became an intense, bright pink. Up above it was pale blue, and the whole effect, with the grey stone everywhere, was just amazing. As I walked around the circle the pink faded, until all that was left was dark grey clouds and light grey stone, and I realized once again how beautiful Paris is.

Today there was yet another rainbow, on my way to the laundromat, and then a sun shower which was very pretty, although cold. My sole excursion for the day was meant to be seeing Juno with Anna, but my laundry situation had become pretty dire, so I had to add that to the list. There are always cute boys in my laundromat who ask me how to use the machine. Aren't they supposed to follow up their questions with an invitation to take a coffee in the café across the street? Is that just in romantic comedies? Tant pis . . .

I had to have a little talking to with the workmen in the apartment below mine. I totally understand and expect construction noise. What I will not put up with is bad pop radio. I swear, it's like Britney Spears is chilling in the corner. It was just SO loud I could hear the yearning through my ear plugs. When I (nicely) asked them to turn it down, they immediately did so. Unfortunately I could see behind them into the apartment, which is a total disaster. It looks like they're just knocking shit down willy-nilly. I think I'm in for a long haul, big-boomy-noise-wise.

Also, they're banging so hard that soot is leaking down from my closed-off chimney. Is this normal?

Unbelievably, I am fighting off a cold. I spent all of November sick, and can't believe my body is ready for more. I never get sick this often in New York. I know that there are different germs here, ones that my body is not used to, but still. Shouldn't all the wine and cheese and croissants help fight them off? I think a trip to the sauna at my new gym is in order.

So I'm wrapped up on my couch, eating clementines and reading a manuscript for my new job. Later on I'm meeting with a woman about my new Business English client, so she can fill me in on his level and interests. I meet with him Wednesday for the first time, right after my first appointment since May with the hot pilot! I'm very much looking forward to seeing him again.

The good news of the day, however, is that the name change documentation proved sufficient for the jerks over at the prefecture, and my recipisse was mailed out on the 10th. I still don't have it, since I'll have to go to Michel's office to pick it up, but at least I know it's on the way. And Mme. Dionis said that my appointment to pick up my carte de sejour should be in the same envelope. Whoopee!

Man, I have a crazy craving for brownies.

Today was a very strange day. I was happy when I got a call last night from Catherine, the head English teacher at the good school, saying that instead of teaching today I was going to be chaperoning a group of 4eme (8th graders) to the movies. I helped herd around 75 screaming tweens from one side of Paris to the other and back, to watch one of the most disturbing movies ever.

Now, there are thousands and thousands of movies out there. Many of them are appropriate for 12-13 year olds. Ken Loach's My Name is Joe, however, is not one of them. Boasting drug use, addiction, and dealing, alcoholism, extreme violence including wife beating, prostitution, sex/nudity, suicide, and no fewer than 230 uses of the word "fuck," I have absolutely no clue why anyone would choose to show this movie to kids. Add in the incredibly difficult Scottish accent (I had an easier time reading the French subtitles than I did listening), and it was just downright stupid.

So that was weird.

Then I took a three-hour nap this afternoon by mistake. I know I set my alarm, but either it didn't go off or I turned it off in my sleep (the more likely option). Luckily I woke up to a telemarketer, although I have no idea how they got my number since it's brand new. Does France Telecom sell numbers here? How evil.

I trotted over to Benjamin's for weekly tutoring, and then home for dinner. After realizing that six days is too long to be in such (throat) pain that seems to be getting worse, not better, I called SOS Medecin. Any of you who saw Michael Moore's Sicko marveled at the French doctors who make house calls. The doctor who came to my house was super-nice and helpful, and told me I have a post-nasal drip with tonsillitis. He then prescribed four medications (four!), including an antibiotic. Ooh, and best of all, he gave me a doctor's note for the next two days. Score!

I adore French medications, as they're super-strong and easily accessible, what with at least three pharmacies visible from my windows alone.  I don't think I'm going to buy all four medications he prescribed, as that seems a bit excessive. I'm really glad to know that within 48 hours I'm guaranteed to feel better, though.

Anyone want to bring me chicken soup?

Recently, I seem to get sick whenever I return from a vacation. I was sick for the two days between Spain and Amsterdam, and now I've been hit by a whopper since getting back from Italy. It was delayed this time, but I've been out for the count since yesterday. I just woke up from a three hour nap!

I now have only four more classroom hours left in my contract, and I'm okay with that. I thought I would be sad, but I'm not. It was a bit strange being back in school the past few days, since it was my center for so long and now I'm saying goodbye. I cleaned out my cubby today, and recycled a huge stack of worthless paper.

Tonight is another goodbye, to Parisist. The site I've been writing for closed down a bit ago, and we're having a last hurrah for all the writers tonight. I'm especially bummed that I'm sick since I'll be missing out on free booze! I think I'll have to stick to soda in my current condition.

I'm taking pictures of the classes I like, and will post them here when they're all done. I'm upset that I forgot my camera today, because I really like the class I had (seconde 8, section 1). Especially Lucie, who always asks me where I went on vacation. None of my other students think to return the question, when I ask all of them what they did. Lucie is always the only one who says, "and Sophie, what did you do?" And Juliette, who always gives me the sweetest smile when she enters and leaves the classroom.

For my two classes tomorrow we're having good-bye parties. I bought chips and cookies, and they're hopefully bringing something, and we'll have a little celebration. I wonder if I can convince them to celebrate in English?