little things

As I mentioned in my last blog entry, I've had a cold. That's a nice term for whatever it is that I've got. A more apt one might be Tenacious Mutha-Fucking Virus (TMFV, for short).

Here's the thing about this TMFV: It has not been following the protocol. For two weeks, it's been a little bit here, a little bit there at times -- and then way too much here and there at others. There were four days of harmless post-nasal congestion. Then I thought I was better for a day. Followed by two nights of chills. One day, I awoke with a sniffle. The next day, with a fever of about 100. Friday, I thought I was on the mend, minus the cold that had developed. Saturday, congestion but I was fine to work and then play arcade games. Sunday, lots of sleeping. Monday, doing alright until around 5, when my battery suddenly ran out just as friend was coming for dinner. Dinner was pleasant, but my body was trashed. I also started to cough.

Tuesday morning I woke up at 7 and found that TMFV had bestowed upon me a fever that hit 102.4 by 8. (These fine details are courtesy of a thermometer S2 gave me a few months ago when she found out I didn't own one. At that point, I hadn't needed a thermometer in several years.)

Although 102 isn't the range where one becomes delusional, I was seriously tired, aching -- and a bit scared. See, I thought that, in addition to having a fever, this TMFV had rendered me deaf. My place was eerily silent. Instead of the normal morning rush of traffic on the street, all I heard was a LOUD, high-pitched ringing in my ears. I had an outrageous headache. It took me about 20 minutes to persuade my arm to reach the phone, and I was highly relieved, but also confused, when the voice that announces the number I'm dialing was clearly audible through the whine in my ears.

S2 answered the phone, and I told her I was having a problem. That's when I found out it had been snowing. Later, when she came by and opened my blinds, I could see three or four inches of snow on the steps and lawn across the street. That's when I understood why it was so quiet: Few people were driving, and those that were weren't making the normal noises.

All day, I lied inert in bed, only leaving it a couple times to hit the bathroom. That dear S2 came by twice, first to check me out, put some pills in me and make sure I wasn't too sick, then later for a re-evaluation of some sort. Both times, she took my dog for a walk.

Today, I woke up still fighting a fever, which has yo-yo'd around 101 today. The cough has become a bit of juicy misery as my asthmatic lungs do their best to expell this TMFV from my body.

I hate being sick. But I hate it even more when I'm alone.

When S2 came over to help me out and check on me yesterday, I felt like one of my worst symtoms -- fear -- was being addressed. Someone else knew I was ill and frightened by it. Interestingly, before I told her I was scared, she chose to assure me that I would not be "dying alone in your apartment today." No doubt those words were uttered as the result of previous concerns I've aired, but they sounded, in my fevered state, rather prescient and were quite palliative because I believed her. I was able to be just sick, rather than sick and scared.

This business of being scared goes back a ways.

In eighth grade, I got pneumonia and suffered a fever of 106. I was delirious and choking on my clogged lungs. I lived in a large house and had a bedroom upstairs, while everyone else but my sister had bedrooms downstairs. It was a Friday night, and my sister was out. Although I was hallucinating, I remember calling and calling and calling for help, coughing uncontrollably (and believing my pillow was trying to suffocate me by forcing me to find my way through a maze -- each dead end being another occasion to choke me). Eventually, someone came upstairs and heard me, but the experience left its imprint. (As did waking in a fevered state and rather than seeing a doctor at my bedside, there was an especially goulish priest giving me "last rites." The Notorious M.O.M. has never quite had her priorities straight....)

Years later, I was at a journalism conference in Washington D.C. when I got horrendous food poisoning that was mainly expressed by a near-paralyzingly high fever. I remember thinking I might die. Sometime in the morning, a hotel worker entered my room, and as I lie there unmoving on the bed, drenched in sweat, I squeaked out a plea for help. Rather than calling the desk for me, this person walked over to my bags, dug through my purse and *stole all my money.* Seriously. I cannot begin to convey the vulnerability in that moment.

Breaking my ankle was another low point. I wasn't actually alone when that happened; I was playing softball. But my teammates, including a college friend I had known for five years, handed me off at the hospital and went to a bar to drink. I waited in the ER by myself, then waited on a gurney by myself, got x-rayed, etc., and was alone when the doctor came in and abruptly said, "Your leg is broken here and here. It's going to be a while healing."

They put a temporary splint on me, and the nurse asked who was taking me home. I was new to town, and most of my "friends" were co-workers, one and the same as my softball teammates who were out drinking. I spent a long time -- two hours? -- trying to track down someone to take me home, to my second-floor walk-up. Eventually, I called the publisher's administrative assistant, who helped me. I was essentially housebound for the next several weeks, hopping down the steep flight of stairs to my place once in the morning and up them once in the evening. I couldn't carry anything in my hands, which complicated things.

I remember the pain of being alone in the ER rather acutely, but what I also remember with great affection and gratitude were the two women with whom I had become acquainted who came by once a week to collect my laundry and to brought me groceries when they returned it. I cannot imagine how I would have made it through without them.

Likewise, I still have gratitude for Morroco Mole, who dropped off a care package at my door when I had influenza 10 years ago. Because he has AIDS, he had to keep away from me. Frankly, this ailment was so vicious and my fever so high that I probably should have called 911, but I did not have the clarity of mind to do so.

That's the real kicker: When you live alone and get sick, things can get pretty hairy. If, as when I had influenza, you are too sick to call for help, you are at the mercy of those who choose to check in on you -- and even then, it can take a while before they realize you haven't called them back in a suspiciously long period.

Ah, just now, I'm having a memory of writing about a "mumified" single woman (unemployed) found in her home after several weeks passed before friends realized she wasn't returning calls. That was creepy, not least for how she became mumified. Turns out she was soaking some injured feet when she died, and the fluids escaped through her feet into the pan. With the desert heat and her air-conditioning, she ... was mumified.

But I digress.

Anyway, there's a bit of toxic stew in my history when it comes to being alone and sick. This time, I didn't have to suffer so much with that. I'm still fighting this TMFV but am feeling on the mend. Tonight, when I thanked S2 for her help, she insisted she hadn't done much. Driving over twice in the snow and walking my dog was no small thing, but the greatest help she gave was peace of mind. I'm no expert, but my bet is that some small sense of security, of being looked after a little, makes a huge difference in one's recovery.

So I hope anyway. I am *really* tired of this Tenacious Mutha-Fucking Virus. It's time for it to make its Final Exit. In any case, as S2 noted, I will *not* be making mine because of it. At least, I'll cross my fingers. And not soak my feet anytime soon.

(I also apologize profusely, by the way, if I've passed this nasty TMFV to any of you. If so, phone me; I'll make a house call.)