Phwew!

The number of the bus that hit me? That would be a Norovirus. And it was sure a doozie.

Saturday, had a wee touch of the runs around noon. Otherwise, I felt fine, and as it was too cold for softball practice, I was looking forward to a trip down to Philadelphia to visit the Bike Stop, before softball takes over My Whole Life in a few weeks and makes that impossible until August. I made an early dinner for my father and I, and not too long after dinner, it hit. Whammo. Rather than spending a Saturday night bellying up to the bar at my favorite little Quince Street boîte, I was making an hourly dash to the bathroom where harsh liquids were shooting out of either end of me with staggering force. I did my best to take wee sips of water to avoid becoming dehydrated, but then and all day Sunday, the thought of introducing anything into my gastrointestinal track was frightening.

And so exhausting. Sunday and yesterday, I was either lying down on my bed, on the sofa, or on the lay-z-boy recliner in the livingroom. Everything was way too much effort. I couldn't read, I couldn't watch television (it's okay to forgo a fast due to illness), I was incapable of doing anything.

Which left a lot of room for all of that... there must be a word for it in German. The french offer us malaise, I guess. Y'know what I mean? Y'know how when you're sick, it's sick to your core. It transforms your whole view of the world, and of yourself. Everything is smeared, bleared, feckless, wrecked and wrong.

"I ruin everything I touch." "I am alone, friendless, loveless, incapable, forgotten." "There's no hope. I can't do anything. I've wasted every opportunity I've ever been given."

Luckily, instead of sending me right off the deep end, I was graced with a Zen awareness that these were mere thoughts, echoing through the caverns and crannies of my fevered brain.

But just like when I had the flu several years ago, I would thing, "Gosh! I think I'm feeling a little bit better!" and then I'd take Faithful Companion out for a walk, and come back feeling like I had just run an ironman triathalon. And have to go back to bed for a few hours.

And my dad. Last night, monday night, I was almost feeling confident that if I put something in my mouth, it would behave. But what? Soup seemed like the obvious choice. We had several varieties on hand. My Dad opted for Campbell's Hearty Steak And Noodles, and I was looking at Progresso Chicken And Barley. I put my Dad's on the stove first, and just watching it come to a boil seemed to convince me that I had nothing resembling an appetite. "Well," I rationalized, "eating isn't all it's cracked up to be anyway."

(Of course this would happen just when I manage to break 190 on the scale at the gym. Lord knows how long it will take me to climb back up that mountain.)

Well, my dad was having none of it. "Where's yours?" he asked.

The can of Progresso soup to me looked like a twenty gallon drum. Way beyond what I was capable of.

Me: I'll have something later.
Dad: No. Now. While I'm sitting here.
Me: I saw a can of pineapple, I'll have that.
Dad: No. Soup. Soup gives you what you need when you're sick.
Me: But I can't eat all that!
Dad: Yes you can. I'm going to sit right here while you do.

Really?

Yeah. Really. He was serious. Here I am, forty-one years old, and my father was not letting me get up from the table till I cleaned my plate.

Thinking fast, I substituted a smaller can of Campbell's Chicken Noodle for the Progresso. (Nutritionally, I probably would have been better off with the pineapple, all that sodium in the chicken noodle, but I could probably stand a little protein).

As though facing doom itself, I heated the chicken noodle and poured it into a bowl. Spoonful by arduous spoonful went down beneath my father's watchful gaze. Finally (Finally!), all the solid stuff was gone, and there was just the broth. I slurped it down, lifting the bowl, and displayed the emptiness for my father. And then, of course, I cleared the table, loaded up the dishwasher, and had to lay down.

As my father headed back for his after dinner cigar, I said, "Thanks, Dad."

"Well," he answered, "you're more important to me than I am to you." Which is my father's cockeyed way of letting me know he cares about me.

And later, the Baron called! He had called the night before, and I think I croaked 'let's talk again sometime not feeling well here' and then went back to bed, worn out from the exertion of answering the phone.

Thank you Baron von Philadelphia! That phone call was such a life-saver. We chatted briefly, the Baron reminding me that Spring had arrived, and my recovery will be accompanied by daffodils.

Nice.

So today, I think I'm truly on the mend. Look at this! I actually have the energy to heave open my laptop, click on the Safari icon, and type this entry! Like... Go me!!.

And, of course, there was some bad news in my email In Box: one of the two perfect-for-me jobs I applied for sent me an email to let me know that in their opinion, I was not, in fact, perfect for them.

But y'know what, if you've got solid stool, you've got so much! So I'm cool.

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