Don’t Get This
For those of you who have gotten ill recently, my belly-aching — or I should say, my belly aching — probably doesn’t earn much sympathy. But I haven’t been sick in almost two years, and that came to a screeching halt the other afternoon, as the symptoms of something flu-like seized my corps and began beating it into sensibility extremis. My nose is running, inside and out, coughs wrack my whole wraith-like being, everyone of my pores is talking to the softest clothes I can find, and I can’t identify a single joint that doesn’t hurt.
Linda came down with this on Sunday, the day after her daughter arrived with it, and son Trent got it yesterday. Linda has slept for most of the past 72 hours, and canceled appointments and court appearances, something she never does, unless she simply can’t get up; supine is a fact not a choice. No offense, darling, but I hope I don’t get it as badly as you’ve had it. I would like to sleep soundly tonight after as downing as much screw-driver driven aspirin as my gullet can stomach.
Linda does not do sick well. She tends to sound sick, and though she is very undemanding — especially when she’s sleeping — she emits a certain aura of need and concomitant guilt. I, on the other hand, am a wonderful patient. I don’t ask for anything. I say I don’t want anything even when I’m asked, and I’m least uncomfortable lying down alone with a book out of traffic. (It used to be that I would watch television, but I think that would make matters worse.)
Why do some people get sick and others don’t, especially when they’re exposed to the same people carrying the same bugs? Most likely it’s a run down emotional condition that lets the nasty buggers take hold. No wonder so many people get ill around the holidays, with all the stress and pressure and harried schedules. Now let’s see, Linda and I live in a 1600-square foot house, and Typhoid Mary arrived with her warm and engaging husband and two children, one not yet three, one not yet one. They make lots of noise, which is to be expected, but it compromises normalcy.
Linda insisted that I be polite and participate this year, unlike last year, when I managed to hide out in my office a good part of the time. So I spent hours shopping and preparing food, went to the other grandson’s sixth birthday -- wouldn’t miss it for the world, Connor -- went out for Chinese food, and over to Duh Mahl to get the annual family photo taken by a remarkably patient young woman. I did get out of cutting down a tree, hours of shopping, and another photo with Santa, but by and large I showed up where I was supposed to, shaved, and didn’t fuss excessively.
Now we are alone together, and knocking on death’s door, asking for asylum. I would just like to note that until I was struck down in the prime of life, I thought I was doing quite well, getting exercise and sleep in appropriate measure, drinking lots of orange juice, and humbly feeling somewhat holier than the rest. I don’t like going out much in public, especially in crowds of hoi polloi; I’m not confident that They are taking care of themselves properly. Plus they all insist on breathing.
The pitiable carrier has been unwell for a while, so it’s difficult to blame her for thinking she might not be contagious. However, I think the airlines would do us all a favor if instead of checking our bags for bombs, they checked our throats for germs, and not let sick people get into those metal tubes where very little air circulates. I would extend that imprecation to the office, stores, and schools and wherever individuals congregate. If you’re sick, stay home. The rest of us have a right to get out and do our thing without being exposed to people who know they are ill. I know that a lot of folks, particularly at the lower end of the economic spectrum feel that they must go to work because they need the money, regardless of the illness that they spread. But wouldn’t it be cheaper if we just applied a surcharge to HMO profits and gave out more sick days?
And that’s SetonnoteS...I’m Tony Seton.