|4 march 1999|
a code id by head
Reports of my health were greatly exaggerated. In my last entry I said my cold was gone. The truth is it was simply lying in wait to pounce when my back was turned. The virus actually read my journal, saw the complacency there, and then leapt down my throat to start biting again. Bad. The relapse even prompted Viv to instigate one of her early morning inquiries; when she's finally convinced that I'm not faking it, I'll get the morning interview. Usually about 30 seconds after I pry my eyelids open I'll hear "So, do you want to go to the doctor?"
It's a clear signal that she means business. Her question lays down the law right there, the gauntlet is thrown to indicate there will be no more whining. If it continues past this point, if even one nasal whimper spills out, it's within her jurisdiction to render me unconscious either through beatings or injection and drag my limp carcass to the nearest urgent care center.
I do not like urgent care centers or emergency rooms or doctor's offices. I loathe the feeling of defeat, the aura of submission that infuses every conscious minute after deciding to seek medical care. The cleaning up, the getting dressed, the combing of the wayward hair, and then crawling onto the conveyor belt to The Medical World; it's the ritual of The Loser.
Getting there is no fun either. If you're this sick you're too sick to drive, so this means your cheery wife is taking you there just like your mommy did when you were little and that just stinks. You look out the car window at life going by, guys in trucks, guys in suits, smartly-dressed women walking fast, and you're left out, quarantined. You may as well be wearing jammies. Big fat loud jammies with race cars on 'em.
So I say "No. I'll be okay. I don't need to see a doctor." And I say it in such a way as to convince Viv that this is true. A beat to think about it, a pause after the word "okay", inflection in all the right places, and bingo, I'm home free. She goes to work and I can spend the day jumping on the bed and watching Nickelodeon.
Again exaggeration. I meant C-SPAN.
The bed jumper these days is Amy. Yep, she's sick too. This means my magic mornings of wordflow and literary inspiration are once again thwarted by a little girl's flighty demands for things like food and medicine. It looks like she'll be out of school for the rest of the week. I hope she doesn't get slammed by this bug as much as I did. It would be nice to have her back in school next week.
* * * * * * *
Also next week, Viv jets off to Vegas. She'll be attending ShoWest again, a big movie clusterfu...er, convention, so for a couple of days I'll be flying solo in the parenting slot again. It would be nice to do so with a healthy kid. I've had my share of keeping an eagle eye on a sick one.
Actually, I sorta like the kid, so I don't mind hanging out with her. She's becoming a lot more expressive these days and it's a pleasure to see her personality developing.
* * * * * * *
Alright, that's enough. I'm gonna close this entry. With the brain cloud I get from the cold medicine I'm taking, and the general fatigue, my writing isn't what it could be, and for that I apologize. I just felt compelled to say howdy and I ain't dead yet.
I can't wait to be healthy again. Jeez disease. It's buggin' the hell outta me.
"Get Happy" -- Jane Horrocks -- MUSIC FROM THE MIRAMAX MOTION PICTURE LITTLE VOICE
"He is in great Danger, who being sick, thinks himself well."
- Thomas Fuller