A POST-THANKSGIVING POEM

On this day after Thanksgiving,

I've take to bed, Feeling quite awful, Just the warm side of dead.

As to what really ails me, I haven't a clue. Don't think it's pneumonia, Though it might be the flu. My throat's slightly swollen, Kinda scratchy and sore. And I'm achy and chilling All the way to my core. Yet my stomach's not upset, My digestive tract's fine, Though my lower back throbs Like a moose stomped my spine. My head is all spinning, And my balance is off. But I don't have a fever, And I don't have a cough. Is it something exotic, A rare foreign disease? Like a virus from Asia? Or a germ from Belize? Should I feng shui the cottage? Call a shaman or priest? Or consult some old herbal For my healing release? I'd like to recover, But which way is best? A round of prescriptions? Or just plenty of rest? The choice isn't easy… Tell me, which do I choose? Prescribed antibiotics, Or aspirin and booze? Too many decisions For my muddled head, I think my best recourse Is to go back to bed. What worries me most, though, Are not thoughts I might die, But fear I'll miss eating All that leftover pie. Pumpkin and apple And coconut cream, Pecan, banana— Quite a pie-lover's dream! Plus savory victuals Like turkey and dressing, Cranberries, artichokes, A fridge full of blessings! So while I'm still upright And able to think, I'll pile a plate high And get out the drink. I still feel pretty awful

But I'll try and endure…

And if food is the answer,

Then I soon will be cured!

[I hope you'll forgive this bit of doggerel. Blame it on whatever bug has laid me low. I'll let you know if I survive.]

SICK MAN BLOGGING…AGAIN!

Well, it has been a while since my last posting…simply because it has been a while since I was capable of remaining vertical for more than a few minutes. I began sniffing and snuffling last Saturday. A cold, I figured, and went to bed at my usual time. Colds are a rarity for me; I’ve had maybe a dozen during my entire life and they typically endured only a day or so. I awoke worse Sunday morning—aching, weak, still snuffling. As sore overall as if I’d been thoroughly beaten with a club. Since I’d had an annual flu shot, I figured maybe a mild case of some strain not covered by this season’s cocktail mix; combined with the aforementioned cold, a sort of drippy chaser. No other symptoms, though, including fever. I mostly stayed in bed except for forays to the kitchen for juice and tea and doses of acetaminophen. In spite of which, I kept going downhill as the day progressed. Monday and Tuesday was rock bottom; the absolute pits. The cold was still there. I was even weaker, and still ached in every muscle; yet still had no fever, congestion in lungs, sore throat, or other symptoms usual with the flu. Nevertheless, it felt like worst flu case ever. It was all I could do to sit up long enough to drink juice and swallow meds. I tried bringing the laptop to bed and managed about 5 minutes online a couple of times. Day and night became one long 48-hour ordeal. Most of the time I was so sick I couldn’t read. Luckily, I’d gone to the library Saturday and picked up several Books on CD titles; I’ve now listened to the first few disks of the new Elizabeth George mystery perhaps a dozen times each because I kept napping during various sections and had to replay the things to keep up with the plot. Today—meaning late this afternoon—I arose as if from the dead, a rather unlikely Lazarus in dire need of a shower. Showering so drained me that recovery required a brief return to bed rest. Later on, I tried an encore arising and ate chicken soup. That prompted a following nap on the couch. Just before sunset, I staggered onto the deck for a few minutes of chilly sunshine and some fresh air…and I’m still up, if barely. Hallelujah! Whatever malevolent nasty that appeared like a wraith and had it way with me over the past four days has apparently decided to seek fresh blood elsewhere. Now, with renewed faith the worst is behind me, I’m watching the western sky drain its last vestiges of crepuscular light. Clouds seen through skeletal sycamores across from the cottage are glowing salmon-pink against a background of oceanic blue. There are Canada geese in the air, flying fast and low as they head upstream toward their night roost on nearby ponds. A white-throated sparrow whistles soft vespers. I’m glad to be back.