Damned illness!


How do you get over a helluva cold?

I visited Janine in the hospital eight days ago. Maybe I knew I was possibly coming down with something because I didn’t kiss her or her husband hello or good-bye. “I’m not contagious,” she said.

“I might be,” I replied. Overtired from my trip back from Ireland, I didn’t have any other symptoms.

Two days later, in 4°c/ 40°F weather, Issam came home from the pharmacy, complaining about the bitter cold and coughing customers. “I ran out of there as fast as I could,” he said, and added, “It’s SO cold.” Born in Djibouti, where there are no cold-water pipes, he prefers to heat the apartment to 26°C/78°F, causing perpetual temperature battles between us.

“It’s not bitter cold until it is in the negatives, that is Fahrenheit,” I countered. “If French people wore hats in the winter, they wouldn’t get so sick.” Issam thinks hats are for old people.

It was my turn to go to the pharmacy, head properly covered. Nobody was coughing there, and I went in and out without incident. Was it the lack of a scarf? Spending too much time chatting with my neighbor who was walking her cat? Actually, the opposite was true, the cat was walking her, but that’s not the point.

The point is, the next day, I came down with something: runny nose, huge fatigue, coughing, sneezing, etc. I barely made it through my piano lesson.

Monday, I went into my half-the-list mode. Do half of what I wanted to do. But I only had one thing- get to the ophthalmologist appointment. Having left TWO pairs of glasses in Ireland, I was squinting through a 10-year-old pair. He told me I needed progressive lenses. Yes, I am aging.

I walked home in the rain, exhausted.

Tuesday, I was supposed to go to St. Joseph’s to pick up a piece of clothing. Luckily, that person decided not to make the trip in from Versailles. Also, I cancelled my yoga class. Stupidly, I ran a couple of errands and came home exhausted.

Wednesday, I animated a film group, coughing my way through the first ten minutes.

I hesitated about going into the city. It was another rainy, crappy day, typical Parisian February, weather. But I had already cancelled on Saturday. Let’s get this over with. After a half-hour Uber ride with a talkative cabby, I reached the church, just off the Champs Elysées. Inside and downstairs, they were finishing a Lenten soup lunch. I saw many people I knew from another association, and couldn’t resist Pamela’s invitation for a bowl of soup. Boy, did that hit the spot! Leek, potato and sour cream.

I took the plebian metro to go home and canceled my participation in a musical recital later on in the afternoon. Maybe only doing 50% of what I want will be enough to heal me?

On Thursday, the answer to that is no. Finally speaking to a doctor via Zoom, she told me to stay home until it passed.

Inspired by the leek soup, I made a carrot one. It hit the spot.

Then, I brought out the big guns.

Two teapots of herbal teas in four hours.

Binge watching an Irish mini-series on Netflix. The story wasn’t very good, but who cares? I watched it for the landscapes and accents.

Luckily, women’s Olympic ice-skating aired Thursday night. Unfortunately, I fell asleep during the gold-winning performance. I’ll watch it on replay.

Today, I won’t go yoga in the morning. But I can go to my writing group, since it’s online.

I won’t’ go to a four-hour birthday party.

I’ll have the apartment to myself.

I can binge watch the Olympics and maybe another Netflix series.

All the time, quieting the voice that says “You’re lazy.” No, I’m recuperating.

I’ll be damned if I’m still sick next Thursday, when I have tickets to the Decorative Arts Museum’s exposition on Art Deco.

I’ll be damned it I’m still sick in ten days when my cousins arrive for a four-day visit.

Rest is my work. They are both four-letter words.

Talking back to my demons is my work. If Issam were as sick as me, would I suggest that he go out and do things? Of course not.

It’s time for another pot of herbal tea. Spoon in the honey. That’ll clear up the sinuses.

It’s time for another bowl of soup.

It’s time to let my body recuperate. And keep this in perspective.

This, too, will pass. I wish I could say the same for Janine.

 

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