Women have something in them that fools them into thinking they are Super Woman. Well, for me itās Wonder Woman (I even had the Underoos to prove it. And the aluminum foil bracelets. And the crown). So, when I get sick, I live in total denial for several days.
āIām fine,ā I croak, crankily.
1. Boost your immune system
I gargle garlic juice and take hot showers. I drink huge amounts of tea and put my hair up so it doesnāt stick to the back of my clammy neck. I google my symptoms and realize Iām dying of a flesh eating disease.
Eventually, the sore throat begins to get worse. Where a scratchiness was a moment ago, a full-on forest fire the likes of which California has never seen is breaking out now. My voice begins to go, which small children totally take advantage of.
āWhatād you say, Mommy?ā I hear as they run off to wreak havoc and take over the free world. āWe didnāt hear you! Did you say DO put the baby on a leash and DO dress up the neighborās cat? OKAY!ā
My insides turn to sandbags. Is it my kidneys and liver and spleen shutting down, or am I just exhausted? Do I even need my spleen? Whatās with the sudden bouts of narcolepsy? Then the coughing begins, and I sound like a bull frog with a smoking problem.
I hack up my spleen and learn having it on the inside of me was optional after all … like my tonsils, wisdom teeth, and appendix, which all seem to be dripping out my nasal cavity.
Still, I do not admit to being sick! By golly, I may be a little under the weather. But I can beat this.
For crying out loud, I fly an invisible plane and karate chop Nazis for a living, I think I can beat a wee little head cold and still teach phonics! Pshaw!
Speaking of air planes and Nazis, I start to see strange things. Am I hallucinating due to a fever, or are there really purple life size Gummy bears in my office? Do I embrace them or eat them? Why is it so hot in here?
Still, I do not admit to any illness. On the sly, I may be sipping Nyquil like itās a juice box, but thatās a total coincidence.
I. Am. Not. Sick!
2. Maintain proper hygiene
As if to punish me for ignoring them, the Porcelain Throne Gods demand a sacrifice and a thorough worshiping at their altar. Knees knocking together, I answer their call. They are angry with me and I have to prove my loyalty to them by sticking around for oh, about three days.
I havenāt combed my hair or put on make-up in a week. I keep my bangs slicked back with homemade, organic hair gel (boogers and spit). My nose looks like I was stung by a mass of killer hornets with pink Kool-Aid in their stingers.
Iāve gone through so many rolls of toilet paper for blowing my sore snozz that Iāve had to ration the remainder in the kidās bathroom: three squares for #1, five for #2. We canāt have company over because they might have to use the bathroom. Also, since I have The Plague (or is it The Black Lung?) they wouldnāt want to come in anyway.
3. Know when to see the doctor
Now comes the point where I admit I might be sick. After a full week of hearing people in my life tell me to go to the doctor, I am finally at that space. That space where I can admit I need help. Help of the narcotic variety, that is. A little Codeine? Donāt mind if I do. A Tylenol cocktail? Why, yes, please. Bubble gum flavored antibiotics? Come to mama.
Of course, deciding to see a doctor and actually seeing a doctor are too entirely different scenarios. In the scenario in my mind, I call, they answer, I go in, they are glad to see me, I get medicine, they say goodbye, I come home.
What really happens: I call. They donāt answer. I have some lovely flute music to occupy myself while I am on hold for thirteen years. Christmas comes and goes. My baby graduates from college. Eventually, they come back on the line and what do you know? Iām still sick. They can squeeze me in in three days. Three days? Iāll be dead in three days, I say. Okay, come in now, they agree.
I go in. They are busy. Small children sneeze on me, and one licks me. I read Redbooks from 1989. Crickets chirp. Tumbleweeds tumble by. Iāve heard every song Michael Bolton ever sang on the soft rock station. Twice.
They call me back. I explain my symptoms. Well, not really. My voice is gone at this point, so I charade my symptoms. Flailing wildy, I make gestures and do a little improv interpretive dancing.
“You donāt feel well?” The doctor asks, as I back flip over the table and mime Scarlet Fever. I land to a 9.5 from the Romanian judge. I nod, in relief.
“Would you like something for that?” The doctor asks. I embrace him fondly and get snot on his coat. He writes me prescriptions. I mime a marriage proposal but he declines. The thought of driving to the pharmacy to pick them up makes me cry, but I am strong! I am Wonder Woman! I am invincible!
Before I brave the horrors of the pharmacy, I need a nap. And some tea. Maybe a sandwich. Afterwards, I feel a little better. I skip the prescriptions, toss whatās left of the Nyquil, undress the neighborās cat, and comb my hair.
4. Prevent spreading sickness
I hear my husband sniffle gently. Horror crosses his face. āIām so totally sick! No oneās ever been so sick! Iām calling in sick! Honey, Iām sick, would you make me some soup while I go immediately to the doctor? Iām sick!ā Ah, my hero. My manly man. He of the bulging biceps and raging testosterone. My G.I. Joe.
āDonāt get too close,ā he gasps, as I rub his chest with Vapor Rub. āI wouldnāt want you to catch thisā¦donāt want you getting sickā¦I can take it thoughā¦is my soup ready? My soup, cuz Iām sick? Man, Iām so sick.ā Snarf. Blurp. Snoffle.
āIām so glad you didnāt catch this, honey. Arenāt you glad you didnāt get sick?ā
āDonāt worry,ā says I. āI never get sick.ā
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Mandy says:
This is genius. And so, so true!
April 15, 2019 — 3:08 pm