A short piece about being ill
Under the Weather
When you’re out-of-your-head sick, darkened thoughts crash like waves on a breakwater barrier.
Between wet coughs and nasal blows that seem never to clear one nostril, you think to call your therapist, because you’re sure you’ve lost your grip on reality.
The chills come and you huddle like a fetus under rumpled blankets and drift away – finally - only to wake parched and sweaty, hair matted and damp and the depression makes you bite your lip so hard it bleeds.
Your back propped up on pillows so you can breathe, you wait for the next dose of over-the-counter medication to lead you back into a stupor and begin to believe every dark thought that floats through your head.
The little digital thermometer beeps and its over, thank God because you were starting to think you might heave again and the action – along with a 101-degree temperature – curl your hands into fists and grit your teeth so tight it changes the taste of your saliva.
You’re losing it, that last little grip and the doorbell rings and it’s the neighbor and she’s brought homemade chicken noodle soup and a cool 7Up and her son smiles at you from behind her aproned hip and tells you to feel better and the sigh that you breathe ushers away all that tension.
When you’re out-of-your-head sick, darkened thoughts crash like waves on a breakwater barrier.
Between wet coughs and nasal blows that seem never to clear one nostril, you think to call your therapist, because you’re sure you’ve lost your grip on reality.
The chills come and you huddle like a fetus under rumpled blankets and drift away – finally - only to wake parched and sweaty, hair matted and damp and the depression makes you bite your lip so hard it bleeds.
Your back propped up on pillows so you can breathe, you wait for the next dose of over-the-counter medication to lead you back into a stupor and begin to believe every dark thought that floats through your head.
The little digital thermometer beeps and its over, thank God because you were starting to think you might heave again and the action – along with a 101-degree temperature – curl your hands into fists and grit your teeth so tight it changes the taste of your saliva.
You’re losing it, that last little grip and the doorbell rings and it’s the neighbor and she’s brought homemade chicken noodle soup and a cool 7Up and her son smiles at you from behind her aproned hip and tells you to feel better and the sigh that you breathe ushers away all that tension.
Comments
Like all you need to do is run your hands through your hair once and you're ready to go. With us, it involves two of us, brushes and green apple scented suave detangler spray in hand, delicately picking through the rats nests and her swatting me away and frowning like I've done her some horrible, horrible wrong.