On Being Sick

My writer obsessiveness makes me record this illness. It’s all material, as they say. In this case, I jot down two or three sentences in brief bursts of energy, manage no sustained efforts. I haven’t been sick for years, want to remember details of this altered state.

I abandon writing, play Mahjong on my Kindle for an hour. Playing Mahjong or solitaire is soothing, requires no brain activity, keeps my breath shallow and even, keeps me quiet so I don’t cough. The day dims at 3:30 and I lie down for twenty minutes to summon the energy to fix dinner.

There were moments during the worst of the coughing and chills when I thought, “I won’t make it,” but my illness is not life-threatening. People have died from the flu, if that’s what this is. This year, they say, is worse than usual. Young children and old people like me, mostly. Mine began December 29 with the mother of all sore throats and swiftly dove into my chest, where it has entrenched itself. I cancelled New Year’s Day company, shopping, seeing movies—cancelled everything.

I get a book proposal reject and the sky is grey. Why do I keep trying to be a writer in this cold, desiccated land? In the mirror, my face is pasty and my hair needs washing. Nothing like being sick to make you feel rejection—and your age. I shiver, shut down my laptop, curl under a blanket. My mind elaborates frightful images of webs of mucus filling my lungs and throat: they flutter and billow when I breathe. When I get up, I play solitaire and wonder if there are frozen dinners to throw in the microwave.

The OTC stuff wasn’t helping, so I emailed my doctor. I was desperate: my nephew and family from Florida were coming for a rare visit January 5. There was no rescheduling that. My doctor sent prescriptions: these seem to be working best this year, she said. Prednisone. I was taken aback, but started the meds and felt better.

Hobbit time with Phil

In the process of fixing brunch for my guests, I washed my hands as often as Lady Macbeth, took the kids on a walk to the nearby park, coughed little. It helped that these were great kids: I hadn’t seen Carter and Kennedy since he was one and she four—nearly five years ago—and was meeting McKinley for the first time. (A presidential preference in names noted.) My euphoria lasted hours after they left for the airport. Seeing those kids absorbed by Phil’s reading to them warmed me for days.

In short, I rose to the occasion. This happened when I taught too. I remember waking sick, unable to arrange a sub, going to school anyway and somehow focusing on the kids was a cure. Getting outside yourself distances you from your pains.

It doesn’t last. The morning after the visit, I crawled out of bed at nine, did no writing, no translation, no prep of the next class I’m teaching. My mind was too foggy for any of that. If you’re a writer, you’re only worthwhile if you’re writing. On top of being too sick to write, I had the guilt for failing to do so. And after the six-day Prednisone, I felt worse again.

Being sick is seductive. I resist and want to submit to it simultaneously. I want no intimacy. My husband’s sympathetic hug pulls pain from my chest, sets off a round of coughing. Don’t touch me. Let me stay in a darkened room until I feel better. Perversely, that night I dream I’m alone in a dingy house, hurt by his lack of attention.

Being sick is being acutely self-conscious, feeling only the irresistible rush of the next round of coughing I can’t restrain. My chest is squeezed by a band of metal and my throat is strangled by invisible hands. These things rivet my attention, leave me oblivious to the world around me. Wait, is it 2018 now?

I participate little in life, go days without leaving the house. Climbing the stairs, my heart races and a spasm of coughing crowns the effort. Bright blue, the sky hurts my eyes. I close the blinds. Abandoning work gets easier; accomplishing anything harder. Week three every deep breath aches, I get a bronchitis diagnosis and new meds.

This will end. I already anticipate it ending, am coughing less often, tiring less quickly. Food is starting to taste good again. Soon, I may feel well enough to regain a zest for work. But not yet. Now I want to hang onto this feverish withdrawal from obligation until I have mined the malaise out of it. Only then will I be fit to take up my life again.

McKinley and Great-Aunt Pat in the park