A fever-fueled August malady of sorts
I was dreadfully sick with flu last week. An August malady, a bout meant for the dog days of summer. My sheets were a soft swell of comfort, my bed an anchor to my sea-tossed body.
I lay immovable, a fever-drenched mess of tangled limbs, from 9 p.m. on Friday until 4 p.m. on Saturday. Anything outside the life raft of my bed was unattainable, unreachable. I fell in and out of consciousness, George’s voice an echo through the house.
Do you need a drink?
Can you eat something?
Then it would fade as I fell back inside my feverish dreams.
I haven’t had a good round of flu in years and years. I’m a regular flu shot receiver and overall never get sick. But this was a doozy, a real banger as the kids say.
As I write, It’s the Wednesday after the Friday when I fell sick. It has seemed to be a fast-moving virus, but my bones and head are still a bit sludgy. Every morning I wake up with less flu seeping through my pores.
If anyone can wax poetic about being sick as a child and staying home from school, I can. Despite being actually down with a sickness, I looked forward to laying on that big orange couch. I’d turn on “The Price is Right,” and Mom would bring me a tray of OJ and cream of chicken soup with saltines. Nothing tasted better or ever will.
Maybe it’s the care that brings the nostalgia. What I wouldn’t give to see my mom round the corner bringing me a tray of soup.
My daughter, who was always very close to my mom, sent a cute photo yesterday that said, “Your grandmother’s prayers are still protecting you.”
And I felt that. I’m not of the ilk to think I need prayers to get through the flu. Mom was always, “Lay on the couch and I’ll bring you some Tylenol.” We weren’t a run-to-the-doctor family, and I raised my kids the same way.
Rest, hydration, care.
But as a 55-year-old woman, you begin to sift through the moments that stay with you, the ones that left fingerprints on your soul. Through the heavy fever and body aches, I remembered the nonhovering ways of my mom. She brought us what we needed to recover but wasn’t worried. Soup, crackers, orange juice, TV, calmness.
If we didn’t get better and needed an antibiotic, we’d make our way up to Dr. Mullet’s office in Berlin, where a paper packet of bright-pink pills was dispensed from their office. I remember his soft hands touching my throat to check glands, then swabbing my tongue and throat to check for infection, then back home to rest — simple and safe.
The memories came unbidden to me as I rose through the fever, everything bright as a high noon sky. Then the fever broke, and my days have been spent slowly regaining strength. If only I could pretend I was sick a bit longer. I’m in need of some mom-care, it seems.
A cool hand on the brow, fresh sheets at 2 a.m., ice water with a straw in a tan Tupperware cup. Being sick isn’t fun, but being cared for is.
Melissa Herrera is a published author and opinion columnist. She is a curator of vintage mugs and all things spooky, and her book, “TOÑO LIVES,” can be found atwww.tinyurl.com/Tonolives. For inquiries, to purchase her book or anything else on your mind, email her atjunkbabe68@gmail.com or find her in the thrift aisles.
