I have a cold. This is not fair. In fact, it is a definite injustice – emphasis on the “in,” as in not. I have had a cold – loss of voice, unpleasant bodily sensations about the neck and throat and in the muscles, general malaise (“Wouldn’t that be a good name for a hamster?” I have theorized self-importantly. “General Malaise. You could introduce him – ‘this is my hamster, General Malaise. We call him Generalissimo M.’”) – for almost a week.
And I have borne it well. I have cracked jokes about the malaise, stretched out the muscles and exercised anyway, and enjoyed the husky deepness of my voice. (“Do I sound more ‘don’t fuck with me’ with this voice? Because I think I sound much more ‘don’t fuck with me.’”)
By all rights, I should not now be developing new, stronger, symptoms. My existing symptoms should be fading. The lingering aftermath of the cold, during which I congratulate myself on having “not had it too bad” should be setting in. It is the time for gentle complaint (“I wish this damn thing would just go already”), not desperate, feverish moaning. I am supposed to be getting better.
And yet I am not. Whether I have contracted a new cold on top of the old one, or whether it is simply some irritatingly protracted and sneaky variety of illness, I have acquired miserable symptoms I did not, as of yesterday, as of even this morning, possess. Arising from the couch, where I have been watching Star Trek with my sister (she from whom the malady descends, since she’s been sicker than I for several days), I move with the characteristic sick-person shuffle into the kitchen, where my mother, hassled, is preparing dinner.
“I think I’m getting sicker.” I mumble, my lips moving slower as I imagine the cells of my body to be doing, retarded by the attack of this pernicious intruder. “Is there some legitimate symptom of mild illness that involves loss of sight?” I have noticed that lights seem dimmer, as they often do when I am on my sickbed.
“You’re probably just not getting enough moisture to your contacts,” she responds, rapidly stirring a sauce. “Go put your glasses on.”
“Yes. You’re probably right.” I do not mention that this is out of the question because my glasses would touch my nose, and my nose is an affected area. I am, you will notice, being stoic. I am renowned for my stoicism in the face of illness. (Ironically, in my family, this is true.) I slump down in a chair and sigh dejectedly. “Either that or I’m going blind. This is a blindness cold.”
“You know what the reason you’re sick is?” She turns to me, hands on hips. “The reason is that the U.S. is preparing to attack Iraq.”
“My god, you’re right. Goddamn that President Bush,” I cry weakly. “I think we have tza’arat of governments! And it’s obviously contagious!”
Tza’arat is the biblical word for leprosy. It has been a family joke since my bat mitzvah, for which I was assigned to read and chant the Torah portion that discusses the appropriate treatment of people – and animals and objects – with “leprosy,” which actually refers to any white fungus of a particular type. It is a little known biblical fact that you can have not only tza’arat of people, but tza’arat of cows, chickens, houses, and even cookware. If your house gets leprosy, you have to burn it and sacrifice two doves in front of the priest and a goat. Or maybe a goat in front of the priest and two doves. Or maybe the priest in front of a tribunal and a copy of the ten commandments. I’m not exactly clear. Anyway, I can’t remember any cures for tza’arat of governments, let alone what to do if the federal infection gives you an unjust cold.
My mother laughs and I shuffle back out of the room and towards the solace of my space heater. In my room, I gaze in the mirror and discover that some time between trying on bridesmaids’ dresses for a friend’s wedding this morning (during which I silently congratulated myself on not looking too bad after all, even in that color) and now, my face has taken on the disgusting mottled pallor and slack-jawed, dull-eyed gaze of the fully sick person. My hair hangs around my face in a tangled mess, somehow having converted itself from sprightly curls to ungainly, fuzzy hanks, an un-cared-for bramble patch of hair languishing on the site of an illegal chemical dumping ground. My eyes stare back at me with a look of mute despair.
“Damn,” I mumble to myself. “No way out of it now. I’m really sick.” Actually, it comes out more like “Awrayowow. Ahweethii.” Luckily, no one is listening, so no one has to decode it. I shuffle to the bathroom for an extra supply of facial tissues, and notice with satisfaction that the box describes them as “extra-soft.” I feel no twinge of guilt: at the store just two days ago, I rejected tissues with lotion as “pansy” and a sign of weakness and indulgence. Hypocrisy, I remind myself, is merely a human trait, not a sin.
As I attempt to close the bathroom door, Puck, our oldest cat, decides to exercise the unaccountable preference he has for being inside the bathroom when you close the door, even though he immediately disagrees with the state of its closedness and demands it be opened once you are on the toilet. He is quite sneaky about this, and has learned to dash behind the bathtub where you can’t get him as soon as you cry “Puuuuuck!” and lunge (Frankensteinishly, in my case, considering the “Uuuuuuuuuuuh” and slowed grab my sick body manages to work up) for his vanishing black body.
Even in my sickness, though, I outwit him, and though I have to “go,” I pretend I was just getting the tissues and saunter (lumpishly, feet sliding along the floor) back in the direction of my room. He follows, and, all action, I drop the tissue box and lumber back towards the bathroom before he knows where I’m going. Once inside, I push a basket of ancient bath toys against the door so he can’t open it by throwing his weight against outside I chuckle dryly and then dissolve into a coughing spasm. Invalid, one; cat, zero.
And now I’m back in my room, seated upright on my bed and gazing blankly at the opposite wall. Television and books have ceased to have any allure. It’s pretty much just endless noise against the backdrop of sinus pain and general misery. I’m sick. And there’s nothing I can do about it. Unless, of course, I break out the goat, the doves, and the priest. It’s worth a try, right?
And I have borne it well. I have cracked jokes about the malaise, stretched out the muscles and exercised anyway, and enjoyed the husky deepness of my voice. (“Do I sound more ‘don’t fuck with me’ with this voice? Because I think I sound much more ‘don’t fuck with me.’”)
By all rights, I should not now be developing new, stronger, symptoms. My existing symptoms should be fading. The lingering aftermath of the cold, during which I congratulate myself on having “not had it too bad” should be setting in. It is the time for gentle complaint (“I wish this damn thing would just go already”), not desperate, feverish moaning. I am supposed to be getting better.
And yet I am not. Whether I have contracted a new cold on top of the old one, or whether it is simply some irritatingly protracted and sneaky variety of illness, I have acquired miserable symptoms I did not, as of yesterday, as of even this morning, possess. Arising from the couch, where I have been watching Star Trek with my sister (she from whom the malady descends, since she’s been sicker than I for several days), I move with the characteristic sick-person shuffle into the kitchen, where my mother, hassled, is preparing dinner.
“I think I’m getting sicker.” I mumble, my lips moving slower as I imagine the cells of my body to be doing, retarded by the attack of this pernicious intruder. “Is there some legitimate symptom of mild illness that involves loss of sight?” I have noticed that lights seem dimmer, as they often do when I am on my sickbed.
“You’re probably just not getting enough moisture to your contacts,” she responds, rapidly stirring a sauce. “Go put your glasses on.”
“Yes. You’re probably right.” I do not mention that this is out of the question because my glasses would touch my nose, and my nose is an affected area. I am, you will notice, being stoic. I am renowned for my stoicism in the face of illness. (Ironically, in my family, this is true.) I slump down in a chair and sigh dejectedly. “Either that or I’m going blind. This is a blindness cold.”
“You know what the reason you’re sick is?” She turns to me, hands on hips. “The reason is that the U.S. is preparing to attack Iraq.”
“My god, you’re right. Goddamn that President Bush,” I cry weakly. “I think we have tza’arat of governments! And it’s obviously contagious!”
Tza’arat is the biblical word for leprosy. It has been a family joke since my bat mitzvah, for which I was assigned to read and chant the Torah portion that discusses the appropriate treatment of people – and animals and objects – with “leprosy,” which actually refers to any white fungus of a particular type. It is a little known biblical fact that you can have not only tza’arat of people, but tza’arat of cows, chickens, houses, and even cookware. If your house gets leprosy, you have to burn it and sacrifice two doves in front of the priest and a goat. Or maybe a goat in front of the priest and two doves. Or maybe the priest in front of a tribunal and a copy of the ten commandments. I’m not exactly clear. Anyway, I can’t remember any cures for tza’arat of governments, let alone what to do if the federal infection gives you an unjust cold.
My mother laughs and I shuffle back out of the room and towards the solace of my space heater. In my room, I gaze in the mirror and discover that some time between trying on bridesmaids’ dresses for a friend’s wedding this morning (during which I silently congratulated myself on not looking too bad after all, even in that color) and now, my face has taken on the disgusting mottled pallor and slack-jawed, dull-eyed gaze of the fully sick person. My hair hangs around my face in a tangled mess, somehow having converted itself from sprightly curls to ungainly, fuzzy hanks, an un-cared-for bramble patch of hair languishing on the site of an illegal chemical dumping ground. My eyes stare back at me with a look of mute despair.
“Damn,” I mumble to myself. “No way out of it now. I’m really sick.” Actually, it comes out more like “Awrayowow. Ahweethii.” Luckily, no one is listening, so no one has to decode it. I shuffle to the bathroom for an extra supply of facial tissues, and notice with satisfaction that the box describes them as “extra-soft.” I feel no twinge of guilt: at the store just two days ago, I rejected tissues with lotion as “pansy” and a sign of weakness and indulgence. Hypocrisy, I remind myself, is merely a human trait, not a sin.
As I attempt to close the bathroom door, Puck, our oldest cat, decides to exercise the unaccountable preference he has for being inside the bathroom when you close the door, even though he immediately disagrees with the state of its closedness and demands it be opened once you are on the toilet. He is quite sneaky about this, and has learned to dash behind the bathtub where you can’t get him as soon as you cry “Puuuuuck!” and lunge (Frankensteinishly, in my case, considering the “Uuuuuuuuuuuh” and slowed grab my sick body manages to work up) for his vanishing black body.
Even in my sickness, though, I outwit him, and though I have to “go,” I pretend I was just getting the tissues and saunter (lumpishly, feet sliding along the floor) back in the direction of my room. He follows, and, all action, I drop the tissue box and lumber back towards the bathroom before he knows where I’m going. Once inside, I push a basket of ancient bath toys against the door so he can’t open it by throwing his weight against outside I chuckle dryly and then dissolve into a coughing spasm. Invalid, one; cat, zero.
And now I’m back in my room, seated upright on my bed and gazing blankly at the opposite wall. Television and books have ceased to have any allure. It’s pretty much just endless noise against the backdrop of sinus pain and general misery. I’m sick. And there’s nothing I can do about it. Unless, of course, I break out the goat, the doves, and the priest. It’s worth a try, right?
Labels: being dumb, bodies, quotidian
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