Last week, I had a runny nose and some congestion. I spent much of the week popping allergy pills and just meandering along. I was battling allergies and not really winning.
During that time, I thought back to when I was younger and stayed home from school with similar symptoms. I wondered if I had been misdiagnosed by my parents all those years. Allergies are systemic and can manifest themselves like a cold, so perhaps all of my illnesses - or starts of illnesses - were really just allergies. I rolled that over in my head a lot during the week but never really came to a conclusion. But, for this current state of sniffles, I was determined to believe that my symptoms were induced by the dreaded allergies.
I had gotten old and the flowers and pollen and dust and mites and dander and everything else that is evil in Zyrtec commercials had decided that I was their next victim. That somehow I was special enough to be a part of the allergy suffering community.
And then on Thursday, John turned to me and said, "Are you sure this isn't a cold?"
It had never crossed my mind. And I didn't want it to. The thought that I could be sick, that I could take my germs and infect my friends and coworkers was just something that was almost embarrassing. After ending my senior year of high school with pneumonia, I had decided to stay home at the slightest thought of being sick. Catch it early or else it will get really bad. If I had been more concerned about my health in April and not that I had missed 4 days of school visiting a college campus, then I would not have spent my last month of senior year and the entire summer miserable and lonely. Oh my yearbook, with so few signatures, is such a testament to that illness.
So, through my twenties, I gave in to every illness. As soon as I sneezed, I locked myself in a room, lounged on the couch in pajamas, and coddled every cough. A well meaning plan of attack created an insufferable patient. I am well aware of how whiny and needy I can be when I'm sick, but it's become a necessary evil.
I really enjoy the juice Popsicles, chicken soup, and the attention. The sad looks I get from my loved ones as I get tucked in with my snuggle blankets is just a little bonus. That is so not John. He doesn't like being coddled and so he treats others in the manner he would like to be treated.
Thanks to my little illness philosophy, once I think about being sick, that's it. It's over, the thought has jumped immediately to a confirmed diagnosis. No doctor, no tests, no medical website could tell me otherwise. It's as though the pajamas and lounge wear immediately throw themselves on me and the kitchen screams out for soup to be made.
The power of suggestion is just too strong; I've never been able to fight it.
My brother knows this and has enjoyed predicting the future with me. And when it comes to illness, we have a pact. If I ever get diagnosed with some terminal disease, he's going to make sure that the doctor doesn't tell me how much time I have left. Bubba will tack on some months and tell me, like a good brother. With me, if you tell me that the headache will last three days, I will feel better exactly 72 hours later. Not a second before, not a second after. We laugh and laugh about this, because it is so disgustingly true.
I think in the time I've known John, he hasn't really known or understood the truth behind this plan. If he had, he would not have been so casual about "maybe it's a cold" and found a covert way to suggest that different meds might be necessary. Something like "Do you think that your allergies are so bad that you might get an ear infection? Maybe you should double up and attack both ways so you don't get sick." This sort of suggestion would put me in warrior mode (but not the kind of warrior like that creepy Coach on Survivor because I never want to be like that guy) and not the damsel in flannel dress.
But no, the error was made and I spent the next few days woeful about the impending illness that would ensue. I was a champ and still went to work. I figured that if I went to work, I was battling the suggestion and would somehow will my white blood cells into overdrive. I would prove the hubby wrong; and allergies would prevail. Hmm. I just realized how Survivor Coach that sounds. And a little Cheers Coach, too.
Saturday was the day of confirmation. The day that I would have to admit that my husband was, yet again, right. I was miserable. My head had to be propped on pillows, outside clothing could not be donned, tissues had to be within arms reach. I stayed in bed to encourage napping (I'm an illness-only napper) and have some hours unaccounted for according to the cable guide.
I suffered through the cold (?) alone. I must have stumbled downstairs for Odwalla Tangerine juice ten times, each time, grateful that the pounding of going up and down a set of stairs while ill would soon be a thing of the past.
A week later, I'm still with the sniffles. The cold, which John is now calling allergies, just won't go away.
Perhaps it's both. I guess I should go and treat my symptoms.
During that time, I thought back to when I was younger and stayed home from school with similar symptoms. I wondered if I had been misdiagnosed by my parents all those years. Allergies are systemic and can manifest themselves like a cold, so perhaps all of my illnesses - or starts of illnesses - were really just allergies. I rolled that over in my head a lot during the week but never really came to a conclusion. But, for this current state of sniffles, I was determined to believe that my symptoms were induced by the dreaded allergies.
I had gotten old and the flowers and pollen and dust and mites and dander and everything else that is evil in Zyrtec commercials had decided that I was their next victim. That somehow I was special enough to be a part of the allergy suffering community.
And then on Thursday, John turned to me and said, "Are you sure this isn't a cold?"
It had never crossed my mind. And I didn't want it to. The thought that I could be sick, that I could take my germs and infect my friends and coworkers was just something that was almost embarrassing. After ending my senior year of high school with pneumonia, I had decided to stay home at the slightest thought of being sick. Catch it early or else it will get really bad. If I had been more concerned about my health in April and not that I had missed 4 days of school visiting a college campus, then I would not have spent my last month of senior year and the entire summer miserable and lonely. Oh my yearbook, with so few signatures, is such a testament to that illness.
So, through my twenties, I gave in to every illness. As soon as I sneezed, I locked myself in a room, lounged on the couch in pajamas, and coddled every cough. A well meaning plan of attack created an insufferable patient. I am well aware of how whiny and needy I can be when I'm sick, but it's become a necessary evil.
I really enjoy the juice Popsicles, chicken soup, and the attention. The sad looks I get from my loved ones as I get tucked in with my snuggle blankets is just a little bonus. That is so not John. He doesn't like being coddled and so he treats others in the manner he would like to be treated.
Thanks to my little illness philosophy, once I think about being sick, that's it. It's over, the thought has jumped immediately to a confirmed diagnosis. No doctor, no tests, no medical website could tell me otherwise. It's as though the pajamas and lounge wear immediately throw themselves on me and the kitchen screams out for soup to be made.
The power of suggestion is just too strong; I've never been able to fight it.
My brother knows this and has enjoyed predicting the future with me. And when it comes to illness, we have a pact. If I ever get diagnosed with some terminal disease, he's going to make sure that the doctor doesn't tell me how much time I have left. Bubba will tack on some months and tell me, like a good brother. With me, if you tell me that the headache will last three days, I will feel better exactly 72 hours later. Not a second before, not a second after. We laugh and laugh about this, because it is so disgustingly true.
I think in the time I've known John, he hasn't really known or understood the truth behind this plan. If he had, he would not have been so casual about "maybe it's a cold" and found a covert way to suggest that different meds might be necessary. Something like "Do you think that your allergies are so bad that you might get an ear infection? Maybe you should double up and attack both ways so you don't get sick." This sort of suggestion would put me in warrior mode (but not the kind of warrior like that creepy Coach on Survivor because I never want to be like that guy) and not the damsel in flannel dress.
But no, the error was made and I spent the next few days woeful about the impending illness that would ensue. I was a champ and still went to work. I figured that if I went to work, I was battling the suggestion and would somehow will my white blood cells into overdrive. I would prove the hubby wrong; and allergies would prevail. Hmm. I just realized how Survivor Coach that sounds. And a little Cheers Coach, too.
Saturday was the day of confirmation. The day that I would have to admit that my husband was, yet again, right. I was miserable. My head had to be propped on pillows, outside clothing could not be donned, tissues had to be within arms reach. I stayed in bed to encourage napping (I'm an illness-only napper) and have some hours unaccounted for according to the cable guide.
I suffered through the cold (?) alone. I must have stumbled downstairs for Odwalla Tangerine juice ten times, each time, grateful that the pounding of going up and down a set of stairs while ill would soon be a thing of the past.
A week later, I'm still with the sniffles. The cold, which John is now calling allergies, just won't go away.
Perhaps it's both. I guess I should go and treat my symptoms.
1 comment:
Maybe the problem is your body rejecting the tangerine juice. You're feeding the sickness!
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