Sunday, May 3, 2009

The Crud


If a bullfrog could be bilious, the crud that has infected my lungs could have given an entire pond worth of bullfrogs the foghorn voices needed for mating season.  Why a respiratory infection can manage to lower my voice by several octaves is beyond me.   But answering the telephone obviously proves the point.  Even my parents thought that they were speaking with my husband rather than to me!  T’aint fair, McGee!


Spending three or four days curled up with tissue, antihistamine, antibiotics, the generic for Musinex, hot tea, and Southern Comfort has not improved either my disposition or my desire for food.  One result has been that Fang sincerely would appreciate a ‘real’ meal prepared by his lovely wife.  Unfortunately, his lovely wife has stepped out and left this old hacking hag in her place.  The morning meal might or might not be placed upon the daily altar for burnt offerings.  And subsequent sustenance is a hit or miss situation depending upon the degree of headache, the angle of phlegm, and the amount of oxygen reaching the parched brain of the chief cook and bottle (non) washer.


Now normally bellyaching should be reserved for the private confidences of one’s dog, cat, or even one’s mate—depending on how much patience the mate retains after a prolonged bout of bitching—er, bellyaching.  But national pride and priorities demand a reckoning with the latest round of those affected by flu, funk, flack, and flippancy.  No one other than a fellow sufferer could appreciate the sore muscles from coughing up one’s guts, the throbbing of the facial features, or the glazed eyes from attempting to see out of squinted lids while gasping for yet another breath of air.  But please do not allow any other person to compare the miniscule problems that person might have with mine.  NO one has this much difficulty with what some consider to be a normal hazard of health.  Nothing is normal about being ill to me!


Disgusting as it may be to not have regular employment, an inopportune by product of being ill AND unemployed is the inability to call in sick.  How righteous one can be when sick and employed!  Not exposing others to an unnamed but obviously potent illness shows graphically proportionate compassion for others.  Put a tack on the wall, someone, because you have not been exposed to THIS brand of whatever it is that afflicts my person!  But the question remains:  WHERE did this come from?  Did I not wash my hands at the hospital when visiting the sick mother-in-law?  Did I not use a wipe to clean my hands after visiting Wally World?  Was it the restaurant or the fast food place that contaminated my healthy outlook?


Eventually this bout of illness will be a distant memory.  Meanwhile the suitcases are being packed and the maps folded to begin the journey.  Enough of this crud already!

1 comment:

Beverly Stowe McClure said...

Where the crud comes from is usually an unsolved mystery. Hope you're feeling better now.