Dearest Rachel –
I can’t say that it was as regular as clockwork, but you should remember how, more or less once a year, I would come down with a cold that was so bad (for one day, at least) that I would feel like I ought to be informing my mates that my kangaroo ought to be tied down once I was gone.
That is, if I had a kangaroo. Or mates, even (I mean, aside from you – I know you’d make a heroic stab at it, and between you and Ellen, you might even get one to behave, but I dare say it would be a challenge. To be honest, I’d be sorry I couldn’t stick around to watch the two of you try).
Of course, I know that these thoughts are the product of an overactive imagination. There’s a certain point that one imagines Isaiah coming by to let you know to “put your affairs in order, you’re about to die.” At least I can take comfort in the fact that Daniel isn’t likely to turn into Manasseh, or some such – although I would regret not having gotten him set up to handle his own bills and the like. Then again, I’ve been here before, and always recovered in the past, even without having to watch a shadow go up the stairs as proof.
Still, I’m also well aware that there is a certain temperature that one attains from which one’s not likely to recover from, and it’s not that far removed from what’s considered ‘normal’ – barely ten degrees Fahrenheit difference, in fact. And so, when I’m dealing with a temperature of 101.8°, and yet I’ve still got enough chills to require three layers of clothing and four layers of bedding to deal with them, I’m aware that I’m not doing well. That’s where I was yesterday after getting my results back from the pharmacy. I may not have had Covid, but whatever it was, it was (and still is) serious.
But then… after taking some ibuprofen and NyQuil and returning to bed – and I’m not sure they had a hand in it, given how soon after the change came, but I’ll not discount them – I could feel myself begin to overheat, and I couldn’t strip myself or the bed fast enough. I was down to shirt and pants on an uncovered bed in short order before falling asleep. Although, just the thought of moving around like that has been enough to get me started coughing, and the way I do that, I’d be surprised if I haven’t cracked a rib in the process.
But I did finally manage to get myself reasonably comfortable in bed, and I’ll take the fact that I was able to dream to be a good sign, but I’m not sure what to make of the sight of an immense teapot bounding through the city like Godzilla. Picture a kaiju version of Mrs. Potts from Beauty and the Beast, filling Buckingham Fountain with Earl Grey, and you’ll get the idea. Not exactly a heartening image to project on the back of my brain.
And yet, maybe it was just the reminder I needed. Lars has been keeping tabs on me, even since I had to cancel our walk through Harms Woods on Thursday. He has been insistent that I eat (none of this ‘starve a fever’ nonsense) and drink (hot or cold, doesn’t really matter – I’m sweating fluids, and I need to replenish them in any way possible), but as much as I protest that I can and I will, I haven’t actually been able to. Most of yesterday, I’ve just been too tired to exert myself to put something together; apart from cereal in the morning, I haven’t eaten a thing in the past twenty-four hours. I just haven’t wanted to.
But perhaps, Mrs. P. is telling me that I had best make myself something before she forces it on me. And, to be fair, I’m actually quite hungry at this point, now that I think of it. So, I may well be on the road to recovery, after all.
It’s been confirmed, in fact: at five this morning, I was down to 99.1°, and as of 7:30, I’m now down to the standard ‘normal’ of 98.6°. Now, if only I could do something about this sore throat and cough; but at least I can go get myself something to eat.
Anyway, I’m on my way to start my day, even if I’ve essentially backed out of all my assignments for the weekend. Keep an eye on me, honey, and wish me luck. I’m going to read it.
Letters to Rachel 