It was well past bedtime when I noticed.
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.
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.
Snap off lights, lock doors, might as well leave the dishes until morning.
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.
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.
Which, of course, it does.
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.
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.
I rake my mind trying to remember the old saw … “feed a cold, starve a fever.”
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.
Curled up on the couch, wrapped in a warm blanket, enjoying total control of the television’s remote controller.
Immersing my sneezy self into one episode of some gothic crime series after another until the sun goes down.
I dream of a piece of dry toast.
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.
I made myself a deal: when the firewood goes from flames to embers, I’ll feed us both.
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.
My mother’s advice fills my head: “if the sore throat continues without the appearance of cold symptoms, it could be a strep infection.”
She didn’t live through the pandemic.
So, I test for COVID, just so I might stop guessing.
Negative. Deep sigh.
Fluids. Rest. Repeat.
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.
“You’re not a work …. Are you feeling ok?”
When a demon’s voice answers instead of his mom’s, he puts two and together.
“Can I get you something? I can go to the store… get you some soup and crackers and fruit juice ...”
“That would be really nice.”
I’m feeling better already.
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