Maybe it was from hanging out with my friend Madelaine all week, who had self-diagnoised herself with walking amonnia. Or maybe it was karma getting back at me for challenging someone who was height-challenged (thanks Lisa B for that PC twist!). But whatever it was, last Friday morning, I woke up to see that I came down with the flu. It was your average sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, with-a-fever-so-high-I-was-seeing-koala-bears-kinda flu.
Laid up in bed, with only a satelite TV and my favorite soft powder blue blanket that I "borrowed" from the hospital from a long time ago, to keep me company, I knew my time on this earth was coming to a slow end. The light at the end of the tunnel was becoming brighter and nothing was helping me get better. Not my bottle of Nyquil or my mother's home remedy of Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup and prayer. And as appealing as lying in a bed all weekend may sound, yellow just really isnt my color.
Fortunately, like other flu’s, after mine had taken its course, it soon went away. Except for the coughing part. It stayed behind. This weird, dry, hawk-up-a-lung-kinda cough that wouldn’t go away, despite the vast amounts of cough syrup and lozengers I was taking. And it always came at the most unfortunate of times. During the silent prayer at church. During the movies, when Meryl Streep gave Anne Hathaway demanding orders in hushed tones, in The Devil Wears Prada. And even during the middle of the night, when I was already fast asleep. And as we all know, if I don’t get a good night rest, no one gets a good morning.
The worst time my cough made an appearance was the following Tuesday. It was the Fourth of July and like other outside-barbequing Americans, our family was no different. Except for the traditional crab we always have flown in from Southern California. Next to fireworks, it’s the one part of the holiday I most enjoy. But of course, since everyone thought my cough = a rare and terrible illness, I could not partake in the traditional leg-cracking, butter-dipping, pleasure that I so very much enjoy. I mean living in a desert, you don’t exactly garner the best, quality seafood, so to miss out on something so rare, I knew right then and there something needed to be done about my cough.
The next day, my pre-med friend Maria came over with a bottle of Jose Cuvero. She suggested I try her old, tired and true family tonic of tequilla, claiming that the alcohol’s burning sensation would clear whatever bacteria I had lodged in my throat. It, of course, didn’t clear anything. So much for Maria having a career in the medical field. But the drunken stupor did help me sleep well until the next morning. At which time the cough came back, prompting my friend Erica to try her own remedy.
Like Maria, Erica believed that any bacteria could be killed after it was burned and took me to Blue Wasabi for salmon skin rolls and wasabi. But like the tequilla, the effects of the wasabi were only temporary and it just ended up leaving a nasty and numbing taste on my tongue. Which was really sad, since I couldnt enjoy the rest of my sushi and even more sadder when I remembered sushi wasnt made for takeout. My cough got so bad, that at one point, my grandma suggested rolling a newspaper into a cone, sticking it in my throat and lighting the top of it with fire. Sure, it was an old Mexican trick to get air out of your ear, but was she serious?!
Tired with everyone’s inventive and creative remedies, I decided to try my own and headed straight to one person I knew could make all my pain go away with just a simple signature. My doctor. And though the prescribed medicine did make my cough less violent, it was still there. It just wouldnt leave. It was kinda like that story of the guy who hiccuped for 30 years straight which kinda freaked me out because who wants to live life with their mouth covered like they got SARS?
That night, right before going to bed, I realized the only thing I had to keep me company was the satelite TV. My favorite knitted, powder blue blanket that I "borrowed" from the hospital from a long time ago was in the wash, meaning, this would be the first time in many years that I went to bed without that blanket. Not that it was a security blanket or that this was ther first time I ever washed it, but still...it was weird going to bed without it. To me that blanket was just as much part of my bed as the mattress or the sleigh frame.
One weekend of drunken shannigans later, I realized I hadnt had any of my prescribed cough syrup or any contact with the blue hospital blanket. But I was feeling much better. My cough actually disappeared. At first I thought maybe it was the effects of good western medicine, but then I realized it was actually because I no longer was in contact with that dirty, infested blanket. My blanket had turned into a fabric of germs and that's what was keeping me from getting better. And maybe it was too far-fetch to connect both things together, but really, how often does medicine work if you fail to take it? The moral to the story? Well, there really is no moral, except how weird is it that something I looked to for comfort and warmth is the very thing that kept me sick?
Laid up in bed, with only a satelite TV and my favorite soft powder blue blanket that I "borrowed" from the hospital from a long time ago, to keep me company, I knew my time on this earth was coming to a slow end. The light at the end of the tunnel was becoming brighter and nothing was helping me get better. Not my bottle of Nyquil or my mother's home remedy of Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup and prayer. And as appealing as lying in a bed all weekend may sound, yellow just really isnt my color.
Fortunately, like other flu’s, after mine had taken its course, it soon went away. Except for the coughing part. It stayed behind. This weird, dry, hawk-up-a-lung-kinda cough that wouldn’t go away, despite the vast amounts of cough syrup and lozengers I was taking. And it always came at the most unfortunate of times. During the silent prayer at church. During the movies, when Meryl Streep gave Anne Hathaway demanding orders in hushed tones, in The Devil Wears Prada. And even during the middle of the night, when I was already fast asleep. And as we all know, if I don’t get a good night rest, no one gets a good morning.
The worst time my cough made an appearance was the following Tuesday. It was the Fourth of July and like other outside-barbequing Americans, our family was no different. Except for the traditional crab we always have flown in from Southern California. Next to fireworks, it’s the one part of the holiday I most enjoy. But of course, since everyone thought my cough = a rare and terrible illness, I could not partake in the traditional leg-cracking, butter-dipping, pleasure that I so very much enjoy. I mean living in a desert, you don’t exactly garner the best, quality seafood, so to miss out on something so rare, I knew right then and there something needed to be done about my cough.
The next day, my pre-med friend Maria came over with a bottle of Jose Cuvero. She suggested I try her old, tired and true family tonic of tequilla, claiming that the alcohol’s burning sensation would clear whatever bacteria I had lodged in my throat. It, of course, didn’t clear anything. So much for Maria having a career in the medical field. But the drunken stupor did help me sleep well until the next morning. At which time the cough came back, prompting my friend Erica to try her own remedy.
Like Maria, Erica believed that any bacteria could be killed after it was burned and took me to Blue Wasabi for salmon skin rolls and wasabi. But like the tequilla, the effects of the wasabi were only temporary and it just ended up leaving a nasty and numbing taste on my tongue. Which was really sad, since I couldnt enjoy the rest of my sushi and even more sadder when I remembered sushi wasnt made for takeout. My cough got so bad, that at one point, my grandma suggested rolling a newspaper into a cone, sticking it in my throat and lighting the top of it with fire. Sure, it was an old Mexican trick to get air out of your ear, but was she serious?!
Tired with everyone’s inventive and creative remedies, I decided to try my own and headed straight to one person I knew could make all my pain go away with just a simple signature. My doctor. And though the prescribed medicine did make my cough less violent, it was still there. It just wouldnt leave. It was kinda like that story of the guy who hiccuped for 30 years straight which kinda freaked me out because who wants to live life with their mouth covered like they got SARS?
That night, right before going to bed, I realized the only thing I had to keep me company was the satelite TV. My favorite knitted, powder blue blanket that I "borrowed" from the hospital from a long time ago was in the wash, meaning, this would be the first time in many years that I went to bed without that blanket. Not that it was a security blanket or that this was ther first time I ever washed it, but still...it was weird going to bed without it. To me that blanket was just as much part of my bed as the mattress or the sleigh frame.
One weekend of drunken shannigans later, I realized I hadnt had any of my prescribed cough syrup or any contact with the blue hospital blanket. But I was feeling much better. My cough actually disappeared. At first I thought maybe it was the effects of good western medicine, but then I realized it was actually because I no longer was in contact with that dirty, infested blanket. My blanket had turned into a fabric of germs and that's what was keeping me from getting better. And maybe it was too far-fetch to connect both things together, but really, how often does medicine work if you fail to take it? The moral to the story? Well, there really is no moral, except how weird is it that something I looked to for comfort and warmth is the very thing that kept me sick?
|