Note: Every other blogger might be blogging about Love and Valentine’s Day and chocolates and warm and fuzzy and smootchy stuff like that there. I’m not, cause I’m sick. Your pity is appreciated.
Day One – Friday
Unlike most weekends, I actually have plans for this one. Saturday morning is the VNSA book sale. All year this charitable organization receives donations of used books, cds, movies – scads of stuff – enough to fill to abundance the exhibit building at the Arizona Fairgrounds. It’s every bit as much fun as you can imagine.
Also happening, Husband returns home from a five-day visit with his family.
Friday afternoon, approximately 12:27 pm, Mountain Standard Time, I cough.
It is the first of many coughs.
Day Two – Saturday
My sleep was fitful, full of strange dreams involving angry people, lost pets, and Gene Wilder on the beach with a metal detector. In the morning I take my temperature: 100.4.
I stare at it. The thermometer is an old one. Have we ever changed the batteries? Damn thing is broken.
I think all this while coughing.
This is a terrible time to be sick. Which begs the question, is there a good time to be sick?
“Oh, I see I’ve nothing planned for the second week of June. Say Universe, how ‘bout we reschedule for then, yeah?”
I do not go to the book sale. I go back to bed, wake up at 4:30 pm, Husband is home.
“You don’t look good,” he says.
“Nice to see you, too,” I say.
Day Three – Sunday
Morning temp: 101.2.
Husband says we have a transportation issue, so it works out well I’m sick and won’t need the car.
So glad this is working out for everyone.
Why is there illness in the world? Why is there suffering? I should write about this. A deep, profound piece. People will be enthralled. I’ll bring comfort to millions
Reminds me of a Bible class we had a few years back, the woman leading it looked like she walked off the pages of a Coldwater Creek catalog. There was a visitor to our church, a Southern Baptist from Georgia. She was an old college friend of one of our members.
We were studying the book of Job, and I said how I had a class on it (it was a month-long course at a Lutheran school). The professor said if you take the first part of Job and the last part and put them together, you’ll notice they’re the same style and sound like a parable. Most scholars believe that’s what it was, a story people told about being faithful in bad times and God rewarding them because of it. But something about it must have bothered the writer of Job, so he split it into two parts and added his poetry in the middle, with Job’s friends voicing the conventional “wisdom” and Job questioning it, pointing out flaws in their arguments. And isn’t it great, I added, that we have something like this in the Bible? It’s like saying, hey, it’s okay to have doubts. It’s okay to get angry and question things. God can take it.
The woman from Georgia… well, you would have thought I had horns sprouting from my head. “What the Bible says is exactly what it means and if it says there was a man named Job, then that’s good enough for me! Everything happened just as it says! I don’t know what you teach around here, but at MY church, we speak the truth!”
After the class was over, I heard her ask her friend, “Who is that woman?”
“Oh her? She’s our minister’s wife.”
Am I rambling? I feel like I’m rambling.
Day Four – Monday
Morning temp: 101.5
The earliest the doctor can see me is 1:15. I soldier on, brave in the face of this treacherous, vile malady. Patiently awaiting my time, hoping hospitalization does not prove necessary.
He’s new to the practice: a Dr. Berkowitz, a lean man with salt-and-pepper hair.
Isn’t that always the case? When you look your worst, you get the best looking doctor?
He gives my scourge a name: Bronchitis.
How terribly common. I was hoping for something with a little more heft. Scarlet fever, perhaps. Malaria. Bubonic plague.
On the office wall is a drawing of the respiratory system. A picture of healthy bronchial tubes and ones like mine.
He writes a prescription for antibiotics, Husband drives me to Costco. I must look worse than I thought. As the woman at the pharmacy counter writes down my information, she looks at me and says, “I’ll put urgent on this.”
Day Five – Tuesday
Morning temp: 99.6
Daughter’s birthday. You know your kids are getting older when one of the items they request is bedsheets. We also gave her good quality markers for her drawings, and a small voice recorder for when she’s working over something she’s writing while pacing outside (a common occurrence at our house). She loves the recorder and plans on calling it Diane. (Daughter is a Twin Peaks fan.)
We have no cake for her, no plans on going out, no special meal. What sort of mother gets sick on her daughter’s birthday? A terrible one.
Due to incessant coughing, my stomach now feels like I’ve done several hundred sit-ups. Wouldn’t be so bad if I actually got a flat tummy out of it. Not likely, as the only thing that sounds good right now is pancakes. As I eat my so-so pancakes, I listen to the latest podcast from This American Life.
Bad move. It’s on Real-life Rom-Coms. I’m not what you’d call an overly sentimental gal, but… well, give me a fever and tell me a story of a guy screaming into his cell-phone, “ILOVEYOUILOVEYOUILOVEYOU” and running like a madman down Ludlow Street in New York?… soon I’m a blubbering idiot, sobbing away, teardrops falling into the maple syrup.
Day Six – Wednesday
Morning temp: 99.0
Aw, crap. Not only am I sick on Valentine’s Day (albeit improving), I wrote a post about being sick on Valentine’s Day. Probably looking like crap while I did it.
What kind of blogger posts about her illness on Valentine’s Day?
A sick one.
Tell ya what, do you want something lovey dovey sweet to listen to? Try this American Life podcast.
Only don’t do it while eating pancakes.