| Sunny Side Up March 26, 2003 �2003, Kathleen Gibson If the virus doesn�t kill you, give your friends a chance Look at me. I�m a frightful mess. My sister calls this my �white Aunt Jemima� look. An Easter-egg-purple jogging suit. Wildly patterned sunflower socks. A yellow bandana covering hair that begs a shampoo. It�s my �I�m-not-expecting-to-go-anywhere-or-see-anyone-today� outfit. I�ve hacked and croaked and wheezed in it for eons, it seems. �You have a virus,� said the doctor a week ago. �Antibiotics won�t help. Just tough it out.� Family and friends�ministering angels all�offered advice. �Boil and freeze it out,� said the first. �Get in the shower and run it as hot as you can stand. Then turn it to cold. And back to hot again. Put your feet in a basin and do the same. Hot. Cold. Hot. Cold. Your system�ll be so shocked it�ll just dump the toxins.� �Fry it out,� said another. �Get out the Vicks, lather it on thick.� �Shake it loose,� said the Preacher, my biggest angel�and closest to God, if height has anything to do with it. So while he pounded my back, I used the electric massager on my chest. Three days later I�m still speaking vibrato. Between coughs. �Gargle with salt water,� my mother proposed over the phone from two provinces over, between clucks. I gargled till my tongue was pickled. Nope. Someone else suggested gargling with baking soda. I tried that too. My tongue puffed up like a bulrush gone to seed. �Steam it,� ordered my daughter. The cat, who for several days had been parked comfortably on my chest, joined me under the towel, inhaling the pungent vapors of Friar�s Balsam. It worked for him. He�s playing hockey with a nickel and four furry sticks as I huddle under a blanket on the couch, smelling like a national forest and pecking at my laptop with twig-stiff fingers. �Thyme tea,� said my most Mother-Earthy kind of friend�a knowledgeable ministering angel. �It always works.� The Preacher dashed out for thyme. I tried it with honey, liked it, and drank a whole thermos of the stuff. That was yesterday. The cramps are fading somewhat now. But the salt and lemon remedy recommended by a Chinese friend nearly plucked me from the tree of life. One spoon of salt, she said confidently, pointing her long finger. And lemon juice. Mixed. That�s rather a lot of salt, I thought. So I halved it. For the next twelve hours my heart raced, my eyeballs bugged, my limbs jerked, and my brain spun like a pinwheel in the wind. It�s whirling home just now. In the last week I�ve been shaken, pounded, frozen, steamed, salted, boiled, baked, pickled, puffed and fried. I�m a one-woman-menu. But I�m not daunted�I�m alive. If I can survive my angels, I can survive anything. Next time, I�ll politely tell them to do what angels do best. Fly away and pray. I�m bone cold. I�m going to bed. Will someone please send in the cat? He�s the only one who hasn�t offered to help. You can respond to this column at [email protected] |
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