After half a week of experiencing sharp pains whenever I breathe deeply, I have been diagnosed with pleurisy. For some reason, whenever I say the word "pleurisy" it sounds so serious and a touch romantic. I have recently finished Wives and Daughters by Elizabeth Gaskell, (a book I highly recommend, especially if you like Jane Austen) which has conjured visions of me wasting away in a beautiful gown by a fireplace in a parlour. My head is filled with pictures of me on a 19th century sickbed surrounded by flowers and handsome, chivalrous visitors.
Instead, the nurse practitioner put me on an anti-inflammatory and sent me on my merry way.
It amuses me how wrapped up in romantic visions I can get, especially after reading a classic. How do these authors make everything seem so romantic and elegant when the reality was just the opposite? I mean, c'mon, let's not forget that a common prescription for many illnesses was to be bled by leeches in those days. Still, there is that foolish, sentimental part of me that swoons over Mariannne's sickbed scene in Sense and Sensibility with Colonel Brandon racing off to fetch her mother.
I guess I will have to settle for modern medicine and a good book....and letting my husband wait on me...