Enough already....

Three weeks now, I've been sick. Or make that twenty days. I'm short one--get back to me tomorrow. I've gotten to the point where, if one of the cats hurls up a hairball, I can walk calmly past it for days. My leg hair is long and prickly enough that it wakes me up when I turn over in bed. My cheeks have broken out because I go to sleep with a cough drop in my mouth and wake up with sticky cough drop spit smeared across my face. My hair is kept in a ponytail atop my head, as I don't want a thing to do with it. I'm a pretty pretty girl and Michael can barely resist my hot and sexy flu-wear. I think I'm going to design my own line.


One issue that's hit particularly hard is that while normally I'm a voracious reader, and can almost always count on a book to get me through the bad times, during this extended flu/cold/whatever it is, I can't seem to concentrate. I've read the same chapter in the same book over and over--each time I either start sneezing, need to grab a tissue to replenish the world's phlegm supply, or my head starts to ache. It may not help that I'm reading "The Ghost Map: The Story of London's Most Terrifying Epidemic--and How It Changed Science, Cities, and the Modern World." It follows a Cholera outbreak in Victorian London and is big on symptom descriptions. I lay in the dark at night and worry if I could get Cholera next. Re-hydration is critical to cholera victims, and so I've made sure to toss back bottle after bottle of water.

Nana

Remember Nana in Disney's animated version of "Peter Pan?" Well, I have three anthropomorphized feline nursemaids: Cotton, MaGoo, and Zilla. Each feels strongly that they can improve my health with a good long cuddle. They cuddle in order of superiority: Nana Cotton, the oldest, goes for the neck and head; Nana MaGoo, who is number two, settles her very large and weighty self across my back, and Nana Zilla takes the legs and feet. As they settle in, each takes on the weight of solid lead. They then begin to generate heat to recreate a sweat lodge environment in the bedroom, until I wake up gasping for breath and toss them out of the room. They are each indignant and quite concerned to have been banned from my sickbed. They protest loudly and paw at the door. How will I survive without their ministrations? Especially since Michael is gone this weekend on a quick trip to Canada with a buddy to pick up a motorcycle that was just too good a deal to pass up. Without the cats to tend to me, I may be dead by the time he gets home.

Nana Cotton

Nana Goo

Nana Zilla

'Course, you can't underestimate a cat's instincts. Apparently in a Rhode Island nursing home, there's a cat named Oscar who's known as a "furry grim reaper" because he instinctively curls up with patients who have only a few hours left to live. He's called over 25 deaths.

Yeah, maybe the cats can sleep in the living room a couple more nights. I think I'm feeling better already.