In a heroic and altruistic fashion, The Wife bunched some shifts together last week, and at the end of this week. Enough time for us to escape the gray skies and mid-winter blues and head someplace sunny. But the best-laid plans were replaced by an unexpected houseguest: the great lurching apparition of unwellness. He first tipped his hat to me when, after my vindication at the cardiologist and my triumphant turns around Hains point, I returned home to wrack my left ankle while descending some steps. So, my exuberant return to running was short-lived, indeed.
That same day, The Wife was nearly leveled by a cold of such severity that it nearly incapacitated her completely, for a matter of days. Indeed, at 5am one morning, I was vaguely aware of her leaving bed and moving toward the kitchen. A few minutes later, I found myself summoned to the kitchen by dishes crashing to the floor. As I came upon the scene, the combination of my colorblindness, the low light in the room, and a few too many episodes of Heroes had me momentarily convinced that a killer had visited our home. But no, that puddle of thick liquid on her shirt and pooled behind her head was not blood, but the green juice she had tried to drink before she completely blacked out. A few days later, she is slowly returning to full health.
If it is strange that The Wife would get so sick, it is stranger that I would not follow in her footsteps, in spades. But it seemed that I had escaped. Or maybe it was just a stay of execution, I thought as the aches and weariness that signal the onset of a cold finally came upon me. So we took the advice of several nurse friends and invested in some Zicam. And I have to say, I’m a believer. It is indeed weird and counterintuitive to spread a gel inside your nostrils when you’re already fighting the sniffles, but it really seems to work. It’s like getting a Cold Light, where you’re spared the major discomforts and agonies, but still have the tiredness and sniffles and general malaise. I keep expecting to be hit full force, but instead, it feels like I’m watching a tragic film with the sound on mute. So thanks, Zicam.
The Girlie? Well, she’s been cranky and disagreeable, and we’ve been fretting about whether she had contracted a cold, or just the more common Terrible Twos. Last night, we got some kind of answer. Well, actually, The Wife got some kind of answer, since I was away for the evening. According to reports, bedtime was progressing in the most placid of ways, with hearty dinner giving way to happy bath giving way to night-dipe and snug jammies and warm bottle. The bedside songs were sung, and some discord was evinced before projectile vomiting spewed breakfast, lunch, and (substantial) dinner all over mother, child, walls, and floors. Cleanup followed, of course, with fresh versions of the previously noted items, with the exception of food. And sleep came quickly, leaving us parents to try to figure out how this new symptom fits into our house of sickness. Has the Girlie contracted yet another illness? Or did she just eat too much pizza?