Sick day

​It was well past bedtime when I noticed.

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It wasn’t exactly an itch, exactly, but there was something off about the way my throat seemed to stick a little when I swallowed. I called it right away; maybe I’m starting a cold.

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It was late, though, I thought, as I hauled myself up from the couch, found my slippers and put them on so I could shuffle, feet protected, through a list of settling-down-for-the-night chores.

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Snap off lights, lock doors, might as well leave the dishes until morning.

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Sleep came, but it wasn’t enduring. The soreness in my throat was joined by congestion and some low-level aches and pains. It felt better to sit upright, even though my eyelids drooped.

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Sleeping in a precarious position, I suspected, would greet me in the morning as I had been in a minor collision. I shouldn’t read too much into it if it happens.

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Which, of course, it does.

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In the morning, my throat on fire, my stomach gone sideways from an over-abundant self-administration of medicated lozenges, I dragged my achy body out of bed.

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I stare into the mirror over the bathroom sink and weigh my resolve to finally take a sick day.

Which, now that I’m older, isn’t nearly as fun as when I was a kid. My mother is no longer around to test the heat of my forehead and reassure me that some rest and a bowl of soup is exactly what a doctor would have ordered.

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I rake my mind trying to remember the old saw … “feed a cold, starve a fever.”

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Memory serves up answers: If you feel like eating, eat. Sadly, the same logic doesn’t apply to thirst. In case of vomiting, try small sips and ice chips.

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Curled up on the couch, wrapped in a warm blanket, enjoying total control of the television’s remote controller.

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Immersing my sneezy self into one episode of some gothic crime series after another until the sun goes down.

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I dream of a piece of dry toast.

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I can see the toaster from my next on the sofa. But I have to muster the will to drag myself the twelve feet distance between us. It’s warm here next to the roaring wood stove.

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I made myself a deal: when the firewood goes from flames to embers, I’ll feed us both.

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Later, as I stand over the stove, feeding dry logs to the fire with one hand while sanding the back of my throat with the toast in the other hand.

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My mother’s advice fills my head: “if the sore throat continues without the appearance of cold symptoms, it could be a strep infection.”

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She didn’t live through the pandemic.

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So, I test for COVID, just so I might stop guessing.

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Negative. Deep sigh.

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Fluids. Rest. Repeat.

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So I was back on the couch, with the TV and a murder mystery, when the returning college student leaves his hibernation to hunt the fridge.

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“You’re not a work …. Are you feeling ok?”

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When a demon’s voice answers instead of his mom’s, he puts two and together.

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“Can I get you something? I can go to the store… get you some soup and crackers and fruit juice  ...”

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“That would be really nice.”

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I’m feeling better already.

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Smol talk

For long periods of the day, our two-person office is silent. It’s not an awkward silence; it’s just out of necessity. Mistakes are easy to make when the task is slightly persnickety.

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Of course, we take breaks from the silence. We discuss work. We ask for a second set of eyes.

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But we don’t leave our lives at the door.

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Sometimes we listen to the radio or talk about the news. There are times when we discuss the weather or the state of the world. We trade advice on movies we think the other would like.  

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I can focus my attention on the gentle clicks of a keyboard.

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The end of the day was near, and employees began to trickle into the office.

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They have been on the road taking care of business.

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This time seems to be the bookend of a workday that has come full circle: The morning is for clocking in, then discussing the work at hand. Figure out who is staying and who is going, to where and with whom. Time is made for any enlightenment that can be shared; the more you know … the easier it will be.

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At the end of the day, the routine continues. A handful of folks gather around the gigantic calendar, asking illuminating questions about the writing on the wall.

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Before they clock out, we make time for pleasantries. Phones from the mil-zinials are held outward and at arm’s length while we of the old guard smile and ask questions about what we see: We make mental notes about the color scheme of a new house; we ask about the new baby milestones; we boop the noses of dogs and laugh at the antics of cats; we scroll through recent vacation photos and; and get a little misty at a beautiful bride and her groom, who, we are shocked looks so different in a formal suit and without a casual hat.

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Sometimes I pretend my close-up vision is crisp wherever the phone stops, usually too close to my face. And other times I lean back to grab some paper off the printer, a ruse that puts me in perfect focus.

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The sight of fresh babies sent us old office biddie’s to our phones, where we waste no time in finding pictures of our babies at roughly the same age.

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I love these moments.

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It feels like another full circle.

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Over the holidays, a couple of our college-age kids pitched in, making the workload a little lighter and squirreling away a little scratch for the upcoming semester.

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They had done some maintenance work and some light construction. They had pushed brooms and helped with lifting and hauling where needed. They proved useful at bracing and steadying when expertly directed. They shared jokes and good-natured jabs, and as reports were informally filed, they all seemed to get along just fine.

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They didn’t even seem to mind at the end of a hard day that their mothers were showing off a few mug shots from their long-gone toddler days. They linger a little longer in the office – their voices become more animated as they argue like first cousins – from a generation once-removed  – asserting which of them is barely recognizable and which seems to have only grown taller.

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“HELLLLLLO,” texts The Boss Dad booms to the group, sending a security camera photo from earlier in the day of the boys being interrupted from their tasks by the sound of his maniacal laugh. “He’s like the Wizard of Oz, just before you realize it’s just some regular dude behind the curtain,” my son claps back.

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Laughter and time clocks click in harmony. And it is quiet again.

Getting out from under

 Every morning, on and off, for nearly a decade, I feel as if I have woken up to a new and increasingly alarming realization. And the world feels foggy, like it’s still asleep.

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Of course, it started when a game-show host declared victory in 2016 and, in short order, began dismantling all kinds of legal and political norms, exposing how depressingly easy it was to transform a public office into a personal entitlement beyond the reach of accountability.

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But it didn’t end there.

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And, as much as I thought during his first term that the “adults in the room” had fled the scene, I had to acknowledge that this time around, and only one year in, there wasn’t any resistance at all - like the incoming outfit had stripped our national infrastructure down to the studs.

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Selling off each little bit, seemingly, piece by piece. With or without our approval, a flimsy nod of the head that carries no real weight or an immeasurable sanction. And everything is just a little bit worse.

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We go about our days tending the things that don’t tend themselves or neglecting the things that are harder to stomach. Such as the specter of war set in motion, not by an act of Congress but by the edict of a tweet. We tune in to hear department heads talk about dissent being labeled as domestic terrorism, while poorly trained, masked police murder citizens with near impunity.

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This can’t be our destination. We can’t land here. This can’t even be our middle ground.

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There is no alternate planet for us, or for them.

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Surely cooler heads and reason will prevail.

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Until then, our only constant is that every week, Mondays follow Sundays the same way Thursdays proceed Fridays.  And so on, and so on, like quicksand.

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We have to be vigilant in reminding ourselves not to let it swallow us up.

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We have to guard our rest, so when we do get out of bed, put on the bravest face and do more than simply hope for the best. We have to take pains to really DO our best.

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Keep calm, as they say, and carry on.

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Maybe we don’t have to do anything new … maybe we just have to pay closer attention to the things we haven’t noticed or hadn’t thought were important.

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Today might just be the day that you meet a friend in the grocery store, they will sing the praises of the cava cava oranges, perhaps, and you will admit that the Cuties are getting old. You will catch up on the good gossip as other shoppers rush around you, the pebbles in the stream.

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Small talk.

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It’s hard to know where we are safe to land.

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It makes me think about the protectionist, vigilante thinking we have come to embody: “See something, say something.” has us all brainwashed.

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But “say no more” isn’t always the same as saying less.

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It certainly seems like a juggling act.

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Eventually, everything settles.

Reclaim your time. Recoup your strength.

Come out from under.

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Yearlings

The New Year always greets me with that  slick handshake I recognize from situation comedies. It starts with a tight grin, an awkward approach, and then an outstretched hand.

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I don’t trust it. Like the moment the glitter and streamers shimmy to the ground, the hand of fate will retract back to stroke the greasy slick of its hair.

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What will it give? Who might it take? An ounce of sweat here, a pound of flesh there.

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Last year may have felt like the worst year, but hoping for better feels dangerous. Like tempting fate with no regard for the repercussions, the same as spilling salt without tossing some over our shoulders. Better to be a celebration celibate than surprised by misfortune.

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“Shhhhhh,” I tell myself. “Don’t add unnecessary weight to desire for frivolity.”

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There will be ample time for that during each day of the next too-fast-paced year.

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Instead, I want to spend the first few weeks of the New Year thanking the old one.

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I may not have stuck to all (or any) of the  resolutions I set, but if I close my eyes and calm my breath, I can admit that the good days might have been “Great,” while the worst days might soon be remembered as minor victories. Time has a way of changing perspectives, with its knack of letting new experiences reshape old memories into different forms.

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In the wee hours of that first morning, I feel like a yearling. Hopeful and energetic. Youthful but not new. Today is not just another day, it’s the next one. Anything can happen.

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So, as this new year ages, I resolve to mature with it and try to hold on to that hope; to realize where there is room for growth, there also needs to be time for rest.

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I don’t need to be different, and neither do you. We just need to allow ourselves the freedom to adjust.

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Maybe we just need to unplug to recharge.

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Give ourselves a chance to appreciate the small things: the sight of birds at our feeders, cats on our laps, the taste of sweet oranges and savory broths.

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Reclaim your time; take a walk and a nap. Reread a book you loved.

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Extend yourself whenever possible. Offer to help with something. Even if it’s holding a door open or picking up the thing that someone accidentally dropped. Taking the shopping cart back to the corral, even if it wasn’t you who abandoned it.

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Imagine the ways the stranger left it there may have needed your help instead of your disdain.

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Say thank you every chance you get.

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Allow the feeling of gratefulness to exorcise other demons. Let past regrets go. Forgive yourself as often as you forgive others.

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Let more slide. You don’t have to read the comments. Every once in a while, stop yourself from saying every word of your piece.

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It seems more important than ever to greet this each day of this year with a glad hand.