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Better late than dead, ha ha. But
don't make me laugh; it'll only start another coughing fit – you
know the ones where you're about to throw up your metatarsals, and
you're eyeballs are straining to leave your head. Not attractive.
And it hurts, dammit. The poor ribs and throat can't take any more,
but they must, mustn't they? Because you've gone and got SICK for the
holidays. Day five now, and I'll tell you, I'm getting pretty sick
of it. And even my picture is lying down.
So the card is late – my cheery
Christmas greeting of song, which you can't hear anyway, it's only a
picture, and one now sullied by my belief that the night the picture
was taken was the very one during which I picked up the germ. Why do
people always want to kiss you their wishes? A little distance,
please. The stars in the sky can travel millions of miles without
losing their brilliance. Surely people can extend their greetings
without enveloping you inside their nasty little diseases.
Oh, oh, someone's feeling like
Scrooge....
And I can't tell you the disappointment
I felt when today, on day five of drinking my herbal teas and lying
in first one room then another, and sleeping, sleeping, sleeping
(thenks Gods for thet!). As I aimlessly wandered my small living
quarters and passed by the front door, I saw the postman walking up
my driveway. My heart leapt with excitement. But alas, my joy
curled in on itself and became like the phlegm which tortures my
lungs as I saw him take a right turn to my neighbour's door, and I
stood there - alone again.
Food helps, and I have been lucky
enough to have had some delivered, with love, to me. I think that
was the best Christmas gift ever. And of course, I'm thankful that I
still have my never-ending appetite.
The snows fell last night as I was
reading in the armchair, surrounded by the glow of the Christmas
lights, and the warmth of my electric blanket, the hot water bottle
strapped onto my back, and more tea. So today I thought I might
venture out into some fresh air (well, I know there's no such thing
anymore, thanks to all the pollution, but we're speaking relatively,
as Einstein suggested). I got the leggings and the big sheepskin
coat and two (!) hats and a warm scarf and then had to lose most of
my strength trying to push the snow out of the way of the screen
door. By the time I struggled with the back gate, cleared a bit of a
path so that one could open (the kick method), and got to the back
shed, I was wheezing again, and then full-on horking in the snow with
the mildew of that little hut. Almost died trying to lift the old
tires off the shelf while holding my breath, and then it was all too
much for me. I collapsed in the snow – willingly, because I knew I
had to lie down again, and even enjoying it, after I got down there,
with the flakes falling into my face, and the admittedly fresher air,
not to mention the memories of childhood and carefree living getting
a moment in my consciousness. But I got up before I fell asleep and
died, and just as I did that I heard a voice, filled with alarm,
asking “Are you alright?” And there was my neighbour, rushing
into my yard, full of concern. And that just might be the second
best Christmas gift – to know that I live on a street where people
watch out for you, to know that care and love (and food) are
definitely all out there. You just have to take the time to be
still.
Which on reflection makes me think
that's maybe why I got sick: I had forgotten how to receive; how to
be a helpless child of this maddening but still lovely universe.
