Man, cold

"It's not COVID!" He yelled from under a pile of blankets on the couch.

For two days, going on three, my husband had been making camp in the living room, asking me to fetch him a beverage or stoke the wood stove while he cycled through a plethora of television options ... and coughed uncomfortably.

He is not a good patient.

And for three days going on four, I'd been annoyed, wrinkling my nose as he punctuated the end of his sentences with an obligatory expectorate hoping the neck of the t-shirt he'd stretched over his face would be adequately protective. 

I have run out of patience.

I didn't want to be the nag, asking him when he tested last, but I was also tired of feeling the burden of worry … especially as I tried to avoid the crumpled remnants of the last toilet tissue roll he'd taken from the bathroom for use as receptacles for his specimens, which turned up like puffed tumbleweeds everywhere.

“Need anything at the store? I see we're out of T.P.”

“Ooh … I'd love some kombucha,” he replied. “The good kind.”

“Ok, sure. And while I'm gone, you might want to take this here cotton swab and swirl it around in your nose awhile. I'll help you read the results when I return.”

“Alright … but you'll owe me. Like I want the kind of septic-clogging toilet tissue that will feel soothing on my sensitive schnoz.”

Of course, as fate would have it, upon my return the man was waving the test cassette around as if it were a disposable lighter at a concert when the band began playing his song.

"N-e-g-a-t-I-v-e ... like I told ya."

I wasn't surprised. But I was happy he'd tested his assumption.

Maybe it was just a “man cold,” or the same viral bug that had attached itself to our son's upper respiratory system and caused him to spend the better part of the previous week with a cough that rivaled a smoker. All his home tests were negative, too.

We had even made a trip to the pediatrician to rule out RSV or a secondary infection - like pneumonia - that might require antibiotics.

Which the doctor prescribed considering the worsening cough had been (by my recollection) hanging out, low key, for weeks. 

Of course, once my husband felt the tickle in his throat and started to cough, he assumed he would be next in line at the pharmacy. Like father, like slow-draining sinus-anatomy son.

In his estimation whatever was causing the thickening mucus to mosh around in his headspace if it was reason enough to self-isolate, it was reason enough to over-medicate.

And so in three days' time, he wound up at his doctor, too. 

A doctor who, to my husband's chagrin, refused to prescribe the five-day anti-microbial “cure” that he sought. And who, instead, insisted on testing for other possible infections, and sent him home with instructions for a weekend of rest, hydration, and movie marathons as he awaited the results.

Which eventually presented him with another “I-told-ya-so” moment.

“They called. I tested positive for RSV. I told you it wasn't a Man Cold.”

Peer pressures

 This day will probably feel longer than most. I've prepared myself for it since the official, three-part summons arrived in the mail nearly two weeks ago.

I could have postponed. Life is always finding ways to gum up plans, now is as good a time as any to mark off days on the old calendar.

Instead, I find myself among a hundred people packed tightly into a narrow, high-ceilinged room on a Thursday. We are resigned to staring up at the ornate skylight as we wait to perform our civic obligation:

Jury duty.

It hadn't even started yet, but I had already failed twice. First when I left home with the aforementioned the tear-card printed with my name and official juror number affixed to the refrigeration; and second, when I wore a coat with so many zippers and snaps that magnetometer can't stop yelling at me even after I pass through. 

These are mistakes I needn't sweat. None of them are deal breakers or time-consuming to fix. 

Like most people here, I don't completely understand the inner workings of the process. Much of the administrative function happens invisibly or out of earshot. I try to follow the court clerk's explanation of complicated court calendars and judicial job descriptions before I change my attention to the hushed conversation behind me.

The most important instructions are simple and related in various ways repeatedly:

Ideally, we are informed, that we should know nothing, or have adopted no opinions but be willing to be objective and follow directions. We should not talk about any specifics of the case. The most important thing we should know in addition is that the accused is innocent until proven otherwise.

We are also shown a short film about understanding how to redirect our own implicit biases to ensure we are making judgments based on evidence and facts rather than beliefs or assumptions.

It is apparent to me that some other things have changed since last I sat here, discouraged from using a device or reading material of a periodic nature.

Namely jurors' relative comfort. They even let us work remotely during any downtime.

I want to put my feet up. Or curl into the folds of the quilt lying twisted on the couch, clicking through channels on the television. The familiar place I tend to be when summoned by technology to mark myself present on one specific social media attendance list.

It's silly, I know. But it's the game my globe-trotting daughter is willing to play, and even a brief glimpse into her life is worth the existence of my own demoralizing selfie.

I will be content to scroll the national headlines and work a crossword until we are asked to rise for the judge.

I am of two minds. One that is eager to embrace my civic responsibility: to experience the legal system up close and in person, and not be concerned about the duration, especially if it means the potential of learning interesting facts or strolling around city shops during hour-long lunches. My other mind hopes to be released back into a familiar routine, which will otherwise need reshuffling in light of this absence.

Of course, the enormity of the responsibility isn't something I take lightly. Someone is relying on a jury of peers.

Garden virality

Things have changed. The fish tank is still there, but it's more of a terrarium now. The bucket is gone, but the stickers are all laid out in single rows on the bench, ready for one-touch selection. There are no cartoon creatures decorating the walls on this side of "the house." Just pictures of teens making healthy choices.

He looks a little out of place. The elephant in the room.

Someone calls his name and we are ushered through a door and back into the maze that is the office. Number 10.

His legs dangled from the exam table, the sanitary paper crinkling under the friction of his shifting weight. A shock of uncombed hair stretched in all directions as he pressed the edges of his mask against his cheeks to contain the body-shaking cough.

A man-child. 

The doctor knocked softly on the door before entering.

"How are you today? Been better, I bet. So tell me what's up?"

My son shrugged his shoulders and looked at me.

Our stories don't always match.

The way I see it: He had a cold, and now a lingering cough for a couple of weeks, mostly mild until just a few days ago when it started keeping him up all night, which made me worry about the possibility of pertusamonias and rotoviriosas, prompting this visit.

"We've tested for COVID; we've tried decongestants, expectorants, and suppressants; we've resuscitated his humidifier; we tested for COVID again, and again and again. Nothing."

The way he sees it: "I've been coughing since I was a baby."

It's a tag-team effort, but we manage to cobble enough agreement to give the doc a clearer picture of his situation.

It seems like a minor miracle of the Who's On First variety.

It's even hard to believe he's the same kid I first schlepped here, fast asleep in the car seat's removable "bucket," more than fifteen years ago.

Honestly, I couldn't remember the last time he'd needed a sick call. His whole little life, he had contracted nothing but garden variety viruses that, on occasion, had sprouted only minor secondary infections of the ears, head, or chest.

The doctor methodically got to work: Questions asked. Notes taken. Face places palpated. Breath sounds examined. More notes. A few more questions and, finally, a decision: "I think he's earned a round of antibiotics, can you swallow pills?"

"I remember ... I had a sinus infection when I was ten ... and you had to go back to get giant horse pills because I couldn't stand the taste of the pink liquid."

He thinks it was eons ago, while I have only a vague memory. It could have been five years ago. I could have been ten. 

We look to the doctor for a determination.

"Yep ... I see that right here," the doctor said, drumming an index finger on his chart. "That was back in 2016. Not much since. I don't think it's an allergy. It is possible that he might have the kind of anatomical plumbing that just doesn't drain completely.

The kid always astounds me with his pachyderm memory. 

 

Shelter from the Storm

 I felt empathy for the parents of Saratoga Central Catholic as they rallied to stop an emergency homeless shelter from being operated out of a neighboring property. I really did. It's not easy to stand up to our fears when it comes to our children.

Especially since even the smallest changes make us feel like we're taking a wide, left-hand turn into Harm's Way.

So, I can understand why they'd seek answers to their questions.

But I can’t help but be disappointed in their success.

But as I read the stories in the local newspapers about the controversy – A house that formerly housed a senior citizens center has been identified as a place for a permanent emergency shelter when the seniors moved to a new, 14,000 square-foot space at the YWCA -- I couldn't help but think: what would Jesus do?

As a lapsed Catholic, I have often used that term derisively, a jab of icy sarcasm aimed at the religion that faltered for decades when it came to the infliction of abuse onto the faithful and the shielding of clergy from accountability.

"It's going to be 30 below zero this weekend!!!! WHAT WOULD JESUS DO???"

Of course, I thought to myself, Jesus would rather NOT have a homeless shelter share a fence with his little lamb's athletic fields.

WWJD?

Certainly something more generous than fighting City Hall or getting twelve-hundred signatures on a petition, or boycotting the philanthropic organization that helped the Seniors move to bigger digs, leaving their previous address available for the endeavor.

But I had to reel back my anger when I shouted it into the empty room as I assembled a sandwich and brewed another cup of coffee in my warm, fully stocked kitchen.

I know it won't do any good to castigate the parents for what I may believe are unchristian thoughts.

They're not Jesus. They aren't the Diocese. They're not even holier than Thou in the scriptural sense. Maybe they've never volunteered or even met anyone who ever needed a shelter.

They're just parents fearfully trying to get what's best for their kids, which in today's day and age means shielding them from the big, bad world for as long as possible. Maybe that protection takes the form of smaller class sizes or prayer in school. Maybe it segregates the boys from the girls or teaches religion instead of sex education.

We parents are a lot alike.

We want their children to do the right things. The hard things. The things that may even be unpopular in what we may see as a permissive new world.

We don't willingly accept that homeless people belong to our communities. We don't trust that the Shelters have our interests in mind.

What a missed opportunity that this shelter will not come to pass. These parents may be relieved at what they have achieved, but they should not be proud.

Hopefully, the church will offer its students and their parents a way to make amends through volunteering wherever this shelter finds a home. Maybe in service to the least among them, they will find their own shelter from the storm.