Jackie Wells-Fauth
I won’t be able to write my usual book this week because I am weathering a virus or bacteria which, each time I try to get up, says, “No, I think we’re going to keep lying flat on our back today; stretch out on the couch before I slap you with a dizzy spell.”
Perhaps the worst part about this little virus is that it has hit both my husband and me. You know what that means: there’s no one to wait on me and baby me and make being whacked out of action for a while at least worth the sick room service.
No, Roy and I are passed out in the two best recliners in the house, watching each other through bleary eyes. As soon as anybody twitches, the other responds, “Oh, you’re getting up? That’s great. Could you get me some more water and maybe a bowl of soup or something?”
It started out as a cold. We were both sure we had caught the sniffles from one of the grandchildren, which can happen. But no grandchild of mine would actively seek out this mean-spirited, deceitful, torturous bug. Within a very short time, we could tell we were in trouble.
“What’s wrong with your eye? It looks all funny and blurry,” I ask him as he staggers by.
“The same thing that’s wrong with your eye,” he mutters, “only I think yours is worse.”
It wasn’t long before we turned to each other, coughed and sneezed a few times while holding our heads and said, “You know what? I bet this is Covid.” Covid explains everything. It gives us an excuse to be sick. That is weirdly comforting.
Or it was until we used our home test kits. No sir, we did not have Covid. How wonderful. After all, who wants to have Covid? Except, if it wasn’t Covid and it wasn’t a regular cold (we could tell by the running noses for a week, the unbalanced walking and the major coughing fits) what in the world had invaded our bodies?
After a week of staggering around, we got up. This is enough. We are not going to be held prisoner by some bacteria which has invaded our systems. We are stronger than that!
No, we aren’t. Every morning, we get up, test the upright air and cough our way back down to our pillows. To entertain ourselves, we decided to name this disease.
“How about Fetid Fauth Feelings?” my husband suggested, sneezing out the last syllables.
“No way. I am not sharing a name with this crap,” I answered, wiping my nose and blinking the fuzz out of my eyes. “I have the perfect name for it. We’re going to call it the Devil’s Holiday.”
“That’s pretty good,” he responded. “Can you reach the cough drops from where you are?”
“They are too far away from my fingertips, but if you wait a few minutes, I will be forced to get up for the bathroom and I’ll fling them your way then.”
“Thanks. Maybe this being sick together isn’t so bad,” he said. “After all, the family that ails together…” Unfortunately for him, this disease has completely killed my sense of humor.
“Another crack like that and you’ll get a hammer to the head instead of the cough drops,” I snarl, staggering to my feet and heading for the bathroom.
I figure we’ll have to be going to the doctor if this doesn’t let up soon, because although I think that we are not in danger of dying, I’m not sure our family unity can survive much more of the Devil’s Holiday. Have a good week and for goodness’ sake, don’t come near us!
dropsinthewell 