Ten Worst Things About Having a Cold

 

Okay, it’s fall and I’ve got my first cold. This means, one, my mind is mush and I can’t think of a single thing to blog about, except, you know, my cold. And two—I can’t remember what two was.

In any case, on to the ten worst things about having a cold.

1. The House. When I am sick, I switch to minimal mode. Actually, I don’t. I still do the laundry, cooking, and ironing. (Yes, I do the ironing—do you know what the stack looks like if I skip a week?!) On the other hand, I get phone calls from my kids saying, “Hey, Mom, you are resting, right? Tell me you’re resting.” I love phone calls from my kids.

2. The Vaporizer. I cart mine around with me all day and it hisses, spits, and blows camphor steam in my face. On the other hand, I’m telling myself that it’s a medicated facial. My skin had better look radiant when this cold is over.

3.  Cold Medicine. This worst thing about this is that I can’t take it. I have a “sensitivity” to decongestant, which is another way of saying that if I take cold medicine my heart will beat so fast I get to visit ER. On the other hand, the alternative to cold medicine is a Hot Toddy—bourbon with lemon, honey, and hot water. At least if you have a nasty cold, you’re happy.

4. Snot. Okay, I don’t need to explain why this is heinous. On the other hand, you don’t notice if your allergies are bad.

5.  Sneezing. This is not a problem you want to have if you’ve given birth to four large babies. I will not explain this. And there is no “on the other hand.”

6. No Sense of Taste. This means the very cool pork butt roasted with chipotles and chocolate will taste like dirt. On the other hand, the tea that got left out in the sun and went bad—yeah, you won’t even know it’s spoiled when you drink it.

7. Focus. The ability to concentrate and edit is totally shot. On the other hand, Netflix!

8. A Frightening Reflection in the Mirror. The bathroom mirror reflects back an image that makes you look the love-child of Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer and Grendel's mother. On the other hand, you don’t care.

9.  Sleep. When I’m sick, I can’t sleep. So I ponder—my novels, the state of the world, the health of the dog, etc. On the other hand, I’m getting lots of practice trying not to worry.

10. Yeah, I can’t think of a tenth one. So this will have to do. Besides my vaporizer is seriously spitting—it’s actually blowing out rings of stream. I’d watch in fascination, but I think I put too much salt in the water and it may blow a household circuit. Yeah, that’s happened before.

The Power of Coffee

I’ve been sick. It’s one of those nasty spring viruses that you catch just when you think you’ve made it through the winter. So I’ve spent some time on the couch, sneezing, feverish, etc. But I have made an observation. My family needs me. Here’s why.

1. Someone will cook dinner. Which is wonderful. That someone, however, does not care about vegetables. I make sure we have veggies.

2. Someone will fold the laundry. But they will not fold socks. Socks are viewed with great suspicion and remain in a pile on the bottom of the laundry basket. I suspect that the socks would eventually get folded, but not until everyone ran out of them. I always fold socks. And I know which socks belong to whom.

3. No one waters the plants. Okay, that might be because I have exotic plants with special needs—my laundry room has labeled water jugs, fertilizers, stakes, etc. But still, without me the plants would die and then my family wouldn’t get to enjoy the orchids, African violets, and tropical pitcher plant.

4. No one will throw out the junk mail. It simply gets moved from one place to another and grows. I throw it out as soon as it comes in the front door.

5. No one can do the morning coffee like I can. Everyone knows how to make it. But only I can get the portions just right. And only I can pour. Seriously. Only I can make the coffee come out evenly into six cups. There is nothing more critical first thing in the morning than making sure everyone gets their fair share of coffee. On Monday, one of the minions did not pour the coffee correctly. Great gnashing of teeth followed. Even encouragements to “just make another pot” do not adequately deal with the fact that the coffee wasn’t poured right. And we all know, if the morning coffee ain’t right, ain’t nothing gonna go right today.

Photo Julius Schorzman courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Just Call Me "Flo"

My kids have been sick. They’ve had nasty fevers, coughs, and aches. So I tried to be Florence Nightingale. I dosed medications, took temperatures, and even short order chef-ed, all the while reminding myself that I won’t be able to do this much longer. Soon they’ll be gone.

But I’m sure my kids think I’m a poor copy of Ms. Nightingale. I brought Kid One a bowl of steaming ramen. KO sipped a spoonful.

“Mom,” KO croaked, “did you make spicy chicken?”

Me: “Uh, yeah. I thought you like spicy chicken.”

KO: “This burns my sore throat.”

Me: “Sorry. What do you want me to do?”

KO: “I guess I could just eat the noodles.”

Me: “Sounds great.”

Kid Two: “Can you take my temperature?”

Me: “Sure. Put this under your tongue. And remember it takes a while.”

Some time later KT is groaning. I return. KT mumbles around the thermometer, asking if it’s been in his mouth long enough. I check the clock, swallow guiltily, and say, “Yep. Fifteen minutes will give a really accurate temperature.” Sorry, Kid Two.

Kid Three is older and less sick. And would prefer being left alone (not inundated with “drink this tea” and “take this Aleve”) and really would prefer not being mentioned on my Facebook updates. Sorry, Kid Three. Now all of my friends and our relatives know you’re sick.

Yep, I’m more like Flo than Florence Nightingale. But when they’re on their own and get sick, I’m betting they’ll miss Flo. 

(Scroll past the photo of Florence for information on a Blog Blitz)

This public domain image of Florence Nightingale is courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

One more thing.

DL Hammons of Cruising Altitude 2.0 blog is hosting a Blog Blitz. Here's how it works. Sign up on the linky list below, making sure to record your email address, and you'll be instantly included as a member of the Blog Blitz team. Then from time to time, he'll select a blog (belonging to a blog blitz team member) and a specific date. He'll email all the team members the information and on the date blitz team member will visit the blog and leave an encouraging comment. Imagine having 100+ comments in one day!

A Crappy Purple Scion

I thought we were going to get through the holidays without any sickness. We were within four days of the kids going back to classes, and no one had gotten sick. Then, the plague hit. Quickly. 5 out of 6 were hit. Only Matthew stayed healthy—he actually walked around with a huge bottle of Lysol, spraying everything before he touched it. It got so bad we could all taste Lysol in the air. Ugh.

Some of us were so sick that we argued with our mother about whether we could just sleep on the floor of the bathroom. Theoretically, it was possible, but then others would have to crawl over said person.

Thankfully, the worst is over. Though some of us (me) feel as weak as a newborn puppy. When I woke up this morning my husband leaned over and said, “Do you feel like you’ve been run over by a crappy purple Scion?” I laughed. There’s nothing like a laugh to start the day right.

And if you aren’t familiar with the quote “a crappy purple Scion,” here’s the music video of “50 Ways to Say Good-bye" by Train.

The Magic of Antibiotics

I’m sorry I didn’t post on Wednesday. Two of the kids and I were sick and we had to go to the doctor. (We had sinus infections—who knew three people could get sinus infections at the same time? I thought they weren’t contagious.) And after the visit, I spent five hours tracking down the prescription—seriously, five hours.

After the diagnosis, the doctor sent e-scripts (e-mail prescriptions) to the pharmacy and told me that our prescriptions would be waiting when I got there. It sounded really lovely. Except, it didn’t work. When we got there, the pharmacy had no e-scripts from the doctor.

I called the doctor’s office and was told e-scripts take time to get through (which seems to defeat the purpose). I told the pharmacist, who snorted and told me that e-scripts often get lost in cyberspace. (What do you know, it’s not only query letters and manuscripts that get eaten by the fiend of cyberspace. Apparently, it has a taste for prescriptions too.)

And during the multiple phone calls I made, everyone kept telling me how it wasn’t their fault. And my voice was too sore and raw to tell them I didn’t really care whose fault it was, someone just needed to make a decision and follow-through. Finally, the weight of phone calls (from me and the pharmacy) convinced the receptionist and the nurse to have the doctor send a new prescription.

We finally got our prescriptions. And I took my medicine. It’s been at least fifteen years since I’d last taken antibiotics, so when I woke the next morning and felt so much better, I remembered the magic of antibiotics. Thanks, Dr. Fleming (messy researcher and discoverer of antibiotics)!!




Weird face blind moment (for all my friends who are fascinated by face blindness):


Last night one of my sons woke me (he was feeling bad and wanted medicine). I stared at his face for a second, thinking, "I have no idea who this is." Finally, he said, "Mom?" And I recognized his voice--it was Matthew.

I'm Back

I’m back. Sort of. I have the energy level of a wet dishcloth, but I’ve begun to care about the disrepair that the house has fallen into. That’s the first sign of health.

From my spot on the couch next to a box of tissues, a massive mug of hot tea, and a blanket, I’ve begun to survey and assess. The minions have made attempts to keep up with things. They’ve done dishes and folded laundry. Albeit with mixed results. Cal has complained that whoever folds laundry ought to know that bras don’t belong to him.

I’ve noticed that Matthew is out of bread. I know that sounds like a grocery store issue, but Matthew eats gluten-free bread. The only commercially available GF bread tastes like shoe leather and could be used as a projectile in a catapult. So I make it from scratch. It involves xathan gum (i.e., bacteria poop) and four types of flour (brown rice, tapioca, corn starch, and soy), which are so fine that merely disturbing them engulfs the entire kitchen in a white haze that takes days to settle. So that’s really high on my to-do list of priorities. What Matt doesn’t know is that he’s going to mix the dough today. And maybe Luke will wipe down the kitchen—it’s good to have one meticulous child.

The other thing I’ve noticed from the couch is the lawn. The couch is next to a massive plate glass window that stretches to the floor. While I’ve enjoyed looking at the spring flowers, I’ve noticed that the lawn is a patchwork of clover, dandelions, and vaguely dormant grass. I hatched an idea. (This is the problem with being sick, too much time to think.) Since the grass was dormant, I ought to be able to spray the weeds with Round-up. Dead weeds, live grass. I Googled my nefarious scheme. It was theoretically possible. The caveat was making sure the grass was really dormant, not just almost dormant. The article suggested trying to burn a patch of dormant grass. If it burns, it’s dormant. I pondered this suggestion for two minutes. Then I decided that if I actually tried this, my family would deem me too sick for rational thought and I’d be banished to bed for the remainder of my illness. So, I didn’t start a grass fire. However, I did spray Round-up with wild abandon. (Yes, I was sick while I did it—it was an opportunity for fresh air.)

Luke saw me while I was spraying. He said, “What are you doing?” Me: “Killing the weeds in the grass.” Luke: “Then all we’ll have left is a mud patch.” Of course, I’ll get the last laugh because he is the child who will be mowing said weeds all summer long.

So now I have laundry, bread making, tidying, and spraying weeds (Yes, the weeds are dying. It remains to be seen if the dormant grass is still alive. Otherwise, we will have a mud patch) on my to-do list. I think it’s time to drink a hot toddy and take a nap.

Still Sick

To those of you visiting and hoping to find a new post today, sorry! I'm still sick. And I don't think I could do justice to a post today. (I was feeling better-ish yesterday, and I guess I overdid it.) Hopefully, I'll be better by Wednesday.

Top Ten Reasons to be Sick

I’m now officially doing my part to support the firms of Kleenex and Halls. But I’m trying to put a positive spin on it.  So here are the top ten reasons to be sick.

1. I don’t have to go to the gym. No running when you’re sick. No sweating and no stinky clothes to wash. Of course, that means no caloric indulgences either. L

2. Lying on the couch by the fireplace. You can lay by the fireplace and watch the flames. It’s mesmerizing.

3. Cough drops. Okay, they’re not at all like candy, but I can pretend really well.

4. Vaporizer. This also falls into the pretending category. That steamy vapor is really tropical humidity. Can’t you just smell the ocean? (Actually, that’s the salt in the vaporizer, but don’t ruin my fantasy.)

5. Books. I can read books while I rest. Of course, I’ve finished all the library books I have. But I can borrow them online for my Kindle without leaving the couch. Yeah for Kindle.

6. Writing. I can edit. Of course, my brain is a little foggy, but carpe diem.

7. Movies. I could actually watch some French movie that the boys refuse to watch. Agatha Christie movies are perfect in French.

8. Jammies. I can wear my pajamas until 9am and not feel guilty. Yeah, I could technically wear them all day, but that would cause me too much angst.

9. Vaporub. I can’t think of a single reason that this is a top ten. It stinks and makes my skin sticky. But it allows me to breathe.

10. Tea. I’ll be making tea by the potful. (Why isn’t potful a word? It seems so useful.) Anyway, I’ll be starting with Earl Grey, then Ginger Peach, then Black Currant, ending the day with herbal mint tea. 

Quarantine Us, Please

Since the school year started at the end of August, we have had maybe three weeks of health. Three weeks where everyone has been healthy at the same time. Yep, three whole weeks of health. (There were some weeks at Christmas, but they don’t count because during those weeks Luke and Ariel were recouping from surgery.)

We’ve had weird viruses: multiple versions of the cold, gastrointestinal viruses, chicken pox, etc. We even had a really weird virus, which led to bizarre itchy rashes. I thought it was from something that Matt caught during the period of his zombie abduction, but it turned out to be a viral exanthum, i.e. a strange rash caused by a virus. (Aren’t you glad that you now know the medical term for “a strange rash caused by a virus”?)

It’s gotten so bad the Matt and Jake’s piano teacher now expects one or both of the boys to be sick on lessons day. Yesterday she told me that she’s beginning to think there’s something seriously wrong at our home. Maybe molds.

I think our immune systems are on strike because of overuse and abuse. I bet you didn’t know that immune systems are unionized. See, this blog is educational. Anyway, I suspect our immune system overuse is the university’s fault. People go to class sick. I know Luke will be going to class sick today. (He has an exam in P-Chem—the physics of chemistry.) And he’ll be exposing everyone there. It was even worse last semester when Jake and Ariel’s profs wanted them to come to class even though they had chicken pox. One pediatrician called it “Spreading immunity to the community.” Hmmm. I call it spreading sickness. But I’m just a mom, so why quibble over words?

Of course, Luke, Ariel I aren’t the only sick kids in class. So when they go to class, they pick up germs from other sick kids who are in class and then everyone brings them home to share with their family/roommates. And the cycle begins again.

A while back, I decided to take action. I’ve tried isolation—stay in that room with your germs. I’ve tried rest—do not move out of that bed, you don’t need to check your email or Facebook. I’ve tried Lysol spray, which is supposed to kill viruses, on every knob and flat surface. (Please no comments on the fact that viruses aren’t really alive.) I’ve tried vitamin C. If it weren’t too cold, I’d open all the doors and windows of the house and let the wind blow through—fumigation. I remember that in some old novels they’d talk about smoking the house after a lot of people had been sick in the home. Does anyone know what that was? Was it legit? Or was it then Shakespearian equivalent of room deodorizer to get rid of the sick smell? (Smoking a room is actually mentioned in Much Ado About Nothing.)

At any rate, since all my anti-sickness measures have failed, it’s time for draconian action. Does someone out there work for the public health department? You could quarantine us, and let us get to the point where we are all healthy at the same time. That would be cool. And maybe that would end this cycle.

If not, I’m going to seriously look into that smoking the house thing.

The Plague: Day Seven

I am on day seven of the plague. And it is a very great evil. I was supposed to be better today.  I was supposed to be well by Monday. I assumed that I’d be well last Sunday. Instead I’m stuck with a cough that reminds me of something from a Jane Austen book. “Oh, yes, Miss Connie, poor dear, she suffers from consumption.” Actually consumption is tuberculosis, which I don’t have. But it sounds good. 

What have I done with my time? I burned out on Netflix last week and haven’t streamed a single thing since. Instead, I’ve been making my way through boxes of Kleenex (yes, I realize that’s plural). I’m filling trashcans full with scrunched-up tissues. And I’m pondering how many gallons of herb tea I’ve consumed.

The most challenging thing has been getting the housework done. Yesterday, my minions (namely Matt and Jake) discovered if one goes outside, then one cannot be assigned “laundry duty.” LD is, according to them, a method of torture, which consists of emptying the dryer, putting what’s in the washer into the dryer, putting a new a load in the washer, and most heinous of all...folding the clean laundry and putting it away. Of course, my boys, being the unpaid/slave laborers that they are, aren’t too concerned with doing a good job. At the end of the day, Luke complained, “I got dad’s underwear, Ariel’s socks, and Jacob’s jeans.” I explained that if he started getting my bras, I’d look into the matter. Otherwise, he needed to cope. Beggars can’t be choosers. (Don’t you love it when moms start quoting clichés? That’s what happens when you watch too much Netflix.)

What else have I done besides rot my brain and drive my boys crazy? Not much. I decided to start a synopsis for the platypus (my current novel). A synopsis is supposed to be 2 to 4 pages, double spaced. Seven years ago when I first wrote the platypus, I wrote a synopsis. So I thought that I’d pull it out, dust it off, and it would be ready to go. So I pulled it out. And blinked several times. My synopsis was seven pages, single-spaced. What was I thinking when I wrote this porky thing? I’d need to edit out four and one half pages, minimum.

As of this afternoon, I edited out two pages—a line here, a phrase there, etc. I was feeling proud of myself until Ariel saw the pages, picked them up, and read them. She informed me that the synopsis made my character’s emotional journey seem shallow. I blinked. Yeah, I sort of knew that. But it’s the fever’s fault. When it’s gone, I’m sure I’ll whip that synopsis into shape. Or, maybe I can get my slaves to write it. I’ll say, “Laundry duty or synopsis writing. Pick your poison.” That LD is looking better and better.

I'm Not Sick. Really, I’m Not.

After you’ve been sick for a couple of days (actually, by the time you read this it will be five days = 120 hours = 7200 minutes), there’s nothing more provoking than taking your temperature and discovering that you still have a fever. Okay, my head hurts, my nose runs, and I cough up nasty stuff (sorry, too much information), but I feel like I’ve done the sick thing. I want to get up, do the dishes, cook meals, and fold laundry. Yes, my family is doing these things, but, well, I do it better and more efficiently. Hmm. I’m probably missing a lesson that I’m supposed to learn.

And I’m sooo tired of Netflix. I’ve watched an entire miniseries, a documentary on the world of modeling (very creepy—some of those “women” are 12!!), and some detective tv shows (the plots become extremely redundant). I’m entertained out of my mind and bored silly. Normally, I read or write when I’m sick, but my eyes were too bleary. So I had an entertainment overdose. (Sadly, for some reason, I can’t sleep when I’m sick.)

I have amazing respect for those who struggle with chronic diseases or disabilities. Especially the ones I know who bear up without complaint. There appears to be a lesson for me to learn there too. Hmm. I think this rant means that I haven’t learned that lesson yet either.

In the meantime, I’ve decided that the thermometer must be wrong. Yeah, okay, on Saturday I asked Cal to buy a new thermometer because I decided that all our new-fangled battery-operated ones had to be defective. He brought home one of the old-fashion glass kind. But it’s still not telling me what I want. I’m sure it’s the thermometer’s fault. It’s difficult to come up with a reason why it’s “broken” since I can’t blame it on batteries or electrical components. However, I’m a writer so it’s my job to be creative.  Here are my top five reasons why I really don’t have a fever.

1. My normal body temperature is abnormally high.  So it’s not really a fever.

2. The thermometer doesn’t measure in Fahrenheit. (Downside to this—the only other heat measuring units I’m aware of are Kelvin and Celsius. Neither of which help. I could make one up...)

3. The numbers painted on the side of the thermometer are wrong.

4. I have a fast metabolism so holding the thermometer in my mouth for three minutes gives too high a reading. Thirty seconds should be more accurate.

5. *Imagine me stomping my foot and channeling my inner two-year old* “It’s wrong because I’m tired of being sick.” 

Building Immunity

I'm not sick. I call it "building immunity." I also don't have H1N1 because I refuse to get something known as "swine flu."

Apparently the only way you can create antibodies for cold viruses, is to run a fever, sneeze, blow your nose a lot, and rest on the couch. And if it weren't for the fever, chills, and congested head, it would be great--I got to read a whole thriller today. (The Perfect Fake was very cool and involved forged cartographs and exotic locales.)

So, that's what I'm doing: reading and manufacturing antibodies...I'm not sick, really.

High Temperatures

Yesterday it was 98 degrees. My grass seedlings wept and only survived because I drown them in water. The only living things enjoying the heat are my hedge of knockout roses—they’re in a blooming nirvana. Today, I’d like to avoid thermometers—it’s easier to handle the heat if you don’t know how hot it is.

Only I can’t avoid thermometers unless I close my eyes when I drive—the doctor’s office on nearest cross-street proclaims the temperature and a “coupon” for $500 off a breast augmentation surgery. The doctor is a plastic surgeon. He also advertises getting ready for “bikini weather.” His slogan is “Diet and exercise—yuck. Liposuction—yeah.” I’m not sure which advertisement I find more offensive. The fact that he (yes, I’m a sexist and assume the doctor is male) thinks women need their glands enlarged or the fact that he wants people to believe that the way to deal with excess adipose tissue is to suck it out of your body with a glorified vacuum.

But wait…I was talking about the heat. (Sorry, went crazy on a tangent there for a moment.) Back to the temperature. It’s in the high 90s outside, maybe even pushing 100. Inside the air conditioner is running, but we still have people living at 100 degrees. Matt still has his upper respiratory infection and a fever just over 103. Thankfully, ibuprophen keeps it down to 101. However, we’ve added another malady to our house. Ariel now has a fever and throat infection. I’m either going to learn patience really soon or start buying Sam’s Club-sized cartons of masks and gloves.

The Plague Redux

Since early May there has been at least one sick person in our family. And just when I thought we were finally getting healthy, Matthew came down with the scourge. He’s coughing and stewing an aggressive fever. His cough is slightly different though. Instead of the wet cough that sounds like a backfiring tuba, Matt has a croupy cough that sounds like a seal on steroids.

What is prolonging this plague? Why couldn’t everyone get super sick at once and then we could be done with it? I’m sure there must be some heavy-duty sanctification behind it, but if I knew what exactly I was supposed to learn I’m sure I could do it much faster.

I’m probably supposed to be more patient, which means I shouldn’t have said, “Jacob, we’re getting really tired of listening to your cough.” Yeah, that was the epitome of tact and motherly compassion. Or, “Matt, you don’t need to announce your fever every five minutes.” After all, he doesn’t have anything more exciting to do. (Though I will state for the record that digital thermometers that measure to the tenth of a degree were created by engineers who had never taken care of a sick, bored pre-teen.) Or, my favorite, “If you don’t cover you mouth when you hack, I will duct-tape your mouth shut.” Okay, I didn’t really say that—I only thought it. Hmm…I see a pattern here. Patience. I need to hurry up and get some.

Poached Eggs

Okay, so here’s a vacation update. Friday evening I was out working in the yard, and Cal said, “Is everything packed?” I pull another weed that had the audacity to grow in MY yard and said, “Yep. Everything’s locked and loaded.” Cal’s face took on the pondering look, a combination of a faraway gaze and a rubbing of the chin. “Why don’t we just leave now? We’ll get there by 1:30am.” I bagged my weeds. “Sounds good. Let’s do it.” So we filled the van, brought our pets to their temporary homes, packed the kids in, and left. Little did I know that this was going to be an amazingly providential decision.

About two hours from Orlando, the van seemed to get amazingly cold. I was driving at the time, and I kept switching from the heater to the air conditioner. You would think that I would realize something was up. But I didn’t. When Cal took over the driving, he cranked the air conditioner. I shivered. But I didn’t say anything because I know he drives better at night when the van’s cool.

It wasn’t until I climbed into bed at 2:30am that it occurred to me that my eyes were hot. Eyes are part of my internal thermometer system. Low fevers achieve the status of unimportant—they can be ignored and worked through, i.e. we-laugh-at-sickness stage. Then, comes the 100 to 101. While this frequently can be worked through, it occasionally forces me to lie down on the couch. But this is the ideal stage of sickness because I can actually read through this kind of illness. This is fun sick, although I have to make up for it later with tons of housework. But, still if you have to be sick this is the way to do it.

The next stage of sickness involves hot eyes. This stage has a fever that ranges from 101 to 103. The problem with an illness of this range is that the eyes begin to feel like poached eggs. (For those of you who are ignorant of poached eggs, which would include my children, poached eggs are a pre-progeny food delicacy associated with Eggs Benedict, and it involves bringing water to a gentle boil, cracking the egg and carefully placing it into the water so that the yolk stays whole and the egg is cooked.) But back to being sick. At this stage of illness, it’s too hard to read because the eyes feel like they are being boiled.

Of course, the nastiest stage is from 103 on up. Not long after Cal and I got married, he went to work and I stayed home because I was sick. When he got home, he said, “How are you feeling?” I said, “Not good. My fever’s 105.5” His eyebrows drew together, his nose wrinkled, and his lips pinched. It would not be an understatement to say that his face took on the look usually reserved for someone trying to pass off heresy as orthodox theology. He picked me up, held me under a cold shower, muttered what sounded close to imprecations upon my lack of health sense, and then drove me to the hospital. (And Cal wonders why Luke can have an ulcer for months without complaining—it’s my fault. I take full responsibility.) At this stage of illness, my eyes pour fluids. Cal is sure it must be cerebrospinal fluid—in his mind nothing except leaking brain fluid explains why I’d be so calm about the whole thing.

But thankfully, my sickness didn’t reached the poached-eggs-boiled-dry stage. Just the poached stage. Apparently, I contracted the 72 hour Florida Upper Respiratory ‘Flu. Now that the 72 hours are over, I’m feeling much better and very, very thankful that we drove on Friday just as I was getting sick. (Yeah, I know it can’t be the Florida Flu if I contracted it on the way down—but since I got it on Florida soil…) I can’t imagine a nine hours car drive with poached egg eyes. My eyes are now happy, hen eggs in their chilled shells. Good health is a tremendous blessing!

Call the CDC

I hate being sick. Now I’m sure most people don’t like being sick—although our kids love laying in our bed with a down comforter over them and watching DVDs until their eyes melt and run down their cheeks. If that weren’t enough, I come and bring them delectable treats like Sprite (the kids never get to drink soda) and crackers. Okay, crackers aren’t exciting, but when you’re sick they are. But, you get the picture, being sick can sort of be fun when you’re a kid. Okay, okay, let me put in a disclaimer here before I get all kinds of comments from my children…yes, I do make them do schoolwork if their fever isn’t over 100. But I only make them do reading and math. Don’t gasp. Math is easy for them—if they had to choose a subject to do, it would be math.

Back to the subject. As an adult, especially a mom, there is no redeeming value to being sick. You lie on the couch and watch your house fall apart. It doesn’t take long before the laundry is spilling out of the hampers. Right now, I see a black sock in the middle of the living room floor. Why is it there? Who knows? I find it hard to believe that no one in the past 24 hours has noticed that sock. My basket of ironing, which is supposed to be done on Thursday is, even now, reproducing. Have you ever noticed that when you get behind in ironing, even one day behind, the seven shirts that need to be ironed become 14? I’m convinced that there’s a “rabbit gene/jean” in the ironing basket.

I don’t even want to talk about the kitchen. Though, of course, I must point out that the kids have been doing the dishes. But no one seems to notice that the counters are oases of germs, bacteria, and food filth. All right, Ariel did wipe the counter last night, but the stove is still coated with brown burnt splotches, which apparently is the fault of Luke overspraying the Teflon pan and getting Pam all over the stove.

Speaking of Luke cooking, this morning I noticed him cooking his own high protein breakfast—bacon and eggs, which will be followed by a big bowl of cereal. But I noticed him using a metal spatula on a Teflon pan! I wanted to shout, “NO!” But it came out as a croak followed by a hacking cough.

Jacob and Matthew have their own response to my sickness. As soon as they hear I’m sick, they present me with arguments reasoning that it would be better for my health to let them skip school and play computer/Wii/games/read/do puzzles/etc., all day long. I give them my don’t-waste-what-little-cognitive-power-I-still-possess look, and they break out in peals of giddy laughter.

Also when I’m sick, Jezebel is bored. So, she decided to alleviate her boredom by chewing on the tassels of a table runner. Of course, she’s sly so I’ve never actually seen her do it. I’ve just seen bits of tassel on the floor. She also is fascinated by the smell of “cold.” Whenever my face is within range, she runs over and sniffs my nose. Big,wet doggie sniffs followed by a healing lick across the face.

In the vein of full-disclosure, I must admit that I’m not the best patient. I do get up and clean the stove when I should be lying down. And I cough, sneeze, smell like Vick’s Vapo-rub and run the vaporizer all day, which makes the inside our house like a swamp even though it's ten degrees outside. The problem is that I can’t take decongestants. Apparently, I’m sensitive to them, they make my hands shake, I have auditory hallucinations, they make my heart beat too fast (tachycardia) and I get chest pains.

Hopefully, I’ll be better soon. Calvin went to the store and bought me vitamin C and cranberry juice, which he sternly warned the kids, was only for mom to drink. But I’m beginning to suspect that this isn’t an ordinary cold. This is a hybrid virus, which resulted from the cross of a normal cold virus with a strain of basement-altered-sanitary-sewer-line-misery virus. Yep. That’s it. Better call the CDC.