Have you had “it” yet? Everyone I know has “it.” I, personally, just recovered. What is it? First it’s just a tickle in the throat. No big deal, you think, I’ll do a little Zicam. So, you do a little Zicam. Then, your eyes start itching, your nose starts running, you start coughing, and you’ve been to the pharmacy so many times they’ve hung your picture behind the counter as a possible Zicam junky. But, the Zicam isn’t working, so you heave it into the woods while in the first delirium of fever.
Then, you crave your bed. You start to ache–not like when you’ve just been to the gym, and not like when you fell off the ladder trying to replace the motion-sensor lights on the garage roof (please, like I’ve ever done that!)–but like everything you own hurts: You can’t cough because your chest aches … you can’t smile because your cheeks ache … you can’t pull the comforter up because the weight of it hurts your legs … you can’t shoot yourself because your fingers ache too much to pull the trigger. You lie there, unmoving, praying for death.
Sure, you can go to the doctor, but there’s really no point. He just looks at you like you’re a moron to think there’s a cure for the flu, because if he had that, he’d be on Oprah instead of just being an incredibly wealthy doctor. He wears a mask and asks you questions from the hallway, and if he must touch you, he uses gloves, or if possible, a robotic arm. He says go home, get plenty of rest and fluids, and if you aren’t better in two weeks, let him know. And you’re thinking, Did he just say two weeks? He’s got to be kidding; what does he think I am, a moron?
Eventually, with what you believe is your very last breath, you call your lawyer to update your will. You get better the next day.
One might think, then, that one could simply stop the flu by calling one’s lawyer on the first day. One would be very wrong. The flu is crafty, my friends, as well as vicious, because here’s the worst part: When you are finally up and around and telling everyone how your particular illness would have killed a lesser human being, suddenly “it” will, I kid you not, strike again.
However, there is one thing that’s worse than the flu: My daughter called to say her husband had come home sick three days earlier, went to bed and was still there. Two-year-old Charlie got it the next day, followed by 5-month-old Georgie. Three sick males–isn’t that the seventh ring of hell?
She called me from the pharmacy last night, where she was getting a prescription for Chuck–her first trip out of the house in three days. I told her to enjoy it, maybe take in a movie, but she was in a hurry–all her men were sleeping–she just had one question: “So, Mom, is this Zicam any good?”
