Out of the Pit
Crawling out of the ten-days-deep pit that was my encounter with this year’s flu virus, a pit that threatens to swallow all of January…
My illness is a boundary. I can look back to the time before I was sick. Then the days of darkness. And then there is now. I have passed through something that has changed me, altered my concept of myself and affected the way I look at life. I feel older, more fragile, less confident, more aware that my life is passed it’s prime.
I wasn’t someone who got sick. I would shake off a cold or the flu in three days or so. Now I feel vulnerable, aware of the impact that illness can have on me.
I saw it coming. Denny came home from Cold Bay on the 11th, complaining of aches and a sore throat. Some co-worker had played the hero by coming into work sick and spreading the virus and Denny brought it home to me.
I could tell he was feeling poorly. Despite all the projects he wanted to do around the house before leaving for school, he spent his few days at home mostly lying on the bed, coughing and feverish. I brought him cold drinks Thera-Flu and made sure there was always something ready to heat–and-eat before I went off to work.
So when I felt that first faint tickle in the back of my throat on the 14th, I knew I hadn’t dodged this particular bullet. As I packed up my belongings before leaving work that evening, I put special care into the preparations, suspecting it might be a few days before I would return to duty.
(I am just so glad that apparently I jumped ship just in time—before any of my co-workers got sick. That is the dicey thing about our workplace because we share not only just air and keyboards but also telephone handsets and microphones. We work close. If I am the only one in the facility to get the flu this year, I will consider that we were lucky… In return, the guys seem very happy that I stayed away—that I was willing to stay away—until the danger of contagion passed. )
I was an extra person on shift for the next two days, Sunday and Monday, so I stayed home. Denny rose up from his sick bed to pack for Oklahoma. I waved him off Monday morning, then went to town and stocked up on chicken soup, Thera-Flu, and microwavable meals before hunkering down for the duration. I watched the complete Lord of the Rings trilogy and all five seasons of OZ and sank deeper into illness. Denny would call once or twice a day and we would croak reassurances across the long distance lines like lovelorn bullfrogs. I'm taking care of myself... Don't worry about me... I'll be feeling better soon, I know it...
I had anticipated a few days of codling myself before going back to the daily grind but the symptoms hit me harder than I expected. I lost my voice, deep, rending coughs moved into my chest, and by Wednesday night, I was alarmed to find my fever running well above 102 degrees.
I took some aspirin and planted a cold-pack on my slow-cooking brain while I fretted over my options. I was pretty sure a fever over 103 was a serious deal—when Lena was fighting her brain infection, her fevers topped 105 degrees, but cats are used to running at a slightly higher body temperature than humans—and her fever had sent her into seizures. Lying there in bed, I felt cognizant enough to drive into town to the Emergency Room. I could do it if I had to without passing out or driving off the road. I knew in a worst-case scenario, I could get help at the hospital. But once I was there, how easy would it be to get back home? Would they let me check myself out or would I have to get someone to come down and bail me out?
While fretting over this, I forced myself upright and staggered around the house feeding the cats--taking frequent breaks to rest. By the time I crashed back on the bed, I was dripping with sweat and my temperature had dropped to 101 degrees. I readjusted my cold pack and decided to see if I could manage to keep the fever at bay with cold drinks and aspirin. My temperature settled down to between 100 and 101 and I went to sleep.
Things seemed better by morning. My temperature was still a bit elevated but not critical. Hey, I had broken out in a sweat last night--maybe that was a sign I was past the worst. I had arranged for PD to work my Thursday night shift for me, so I could rest and regroup in the hope that Friday would find me healthier.
But the fever returned that evening--102.7 degrees. I revisited the pros and cons of going into town, and even forced myself outside long enough to plug in the truck. Back upstairs, sprawled on the bed, I kept taking my temperature, reading the thermometer and realizing that I was in trouble. I was seriously ill and I was alone. What I had to figure out was if my temperature was going to go much higher--something hard to deduce even with a cool head.
It always comes down to the cats.
Okay, they wouldn’t die if they had to go a couple days without having their litter boxes scooped. They might not like it, there might be a few “accidents” or expressions of disgust left on the floor but floors are cleanable. The boiler in the shop would keep the house warm enough (the furnace blower having burnt itself out on the 13th) even if the wood stove went out, as long as it didn’t get down to zero or below. If I left them plenty of food and water, they’d be okay for a day or so and surely with medical attention my temperature could be down to acceptable levels well before the cats needed attention…
Okay--back on my feet and with painful slowness, I began feeding the cats, putting out extra dry food. I topped off the water dishes and refilled the fountain reservoirs. Twitch and BeBe got extra dishes. If I couldn't lower my temperature, I was going to have to go to town.
Once again, by the time I was finished the exertion had brought out sweat and I was cooling off. Temperature just 100.5. Okay--I'd stay home for now--but I knew I needed to get in to see a doctor first thing Friday.
(to be continued)
My illness is a boundary. I can look back to the time before I was sick. Then the days of darkness. And then there is now. I have passed through something that has changed me, altered my concept of myself and affected the way I look at life. I feel older, more fragile, less confident, more aware that my life is passed it’s prime.
I wasn’t someone who got sick. I would shake off a cold or the flu in three days or so. Now I feel vulnerable, aware of the impact that illness can have on me.
I saw it coming. Denny came home from Cold Bay on the 11th, complaining of aches and a sore throat. Some co-worker had played the hero by coming into work sick and spreading the virus and Denny brought it home to me.
I could tell he was feeling poorly. Despite all the projects he wanted to do around the house before leaving for school, he spent his few days at home mostly lying on the bed, coughing and feverish. I brought him cold drinks Thera-Flu and made sure there was always something ready to heat–and-eat before I went off to work.
So when I felt that first faint tickle in the back of my throat on the 14th, I knew I hadn’t dodged this particular bullet. As I packed up my belongings before leaving work that evening, I put special care into the preparations, suspecting it might be a few days before I would return to duty.
(I am just so glad that apparently I jumped ship just in time—before any of my co-workers got sick. That is the dicey thing about our workplace because we share not only just air and keyboards but also telephone handsets and microphones. We work close. If I am the only one in the facility to get the flu this year, I will consider that we were lucky… In return, the guys seem very happy that I stayed away—that I was willing to stay away—until the danger of contagion passed. )
I was an extra person on shift for the next two days, Sunday and Monday, so I stayed home. Denny rose up from his sick bed to pack for Oklahoma. I waved him off Monday morning, then went to town and stocked up on chicken soup, Thera-Flu, and microwavable meals before hunkering down for the duration. I watched the complete Lord of the Rings trilogy and all five seasons of OZ and sank deeper into illness. Denny would call once or twice a day and we would croak reassurances across the long distance lines like lovelorn bullfrogs. I'm taking care of myself... Don't worry about me... I'll be feeling better soon, I know it...
I had anticipated a few days of codling myself before going back to the daily grind but the symptoms hit me harder than I expected. I lost my voice, deep, rending coughs moved into my chest, and by Wednesday night, I was alarmed to find my fever running well above 102 degrees.
I took some aspirin and planted a cold-pack on my slow-cooking brain while I fretted over my options. I was pretty sure a fever over 103 was a serious deal—when Lena was fighting her brain infection, her fevers topped 105 degrees, but cats are used to running at a slightly higher body temperature than humans—and her fever had sent her into seizures. Lying there in bed, I felt cognizant enough to drive into town to the Emergency Room. I could do it if I had to without passing out or driving off the road. I knew in a worst-case scenario, I could get help at the hospital. But once I was there, how easy would it be to get back home? Would they let me check myself out or would I have to get someone to come down and bail me out?
While fretting over this, I forced myself upright and staggered around the house feeding the cats--taking frequent breaks to rest. By the time I crashed back on the bed, I was dripping with sweat and my temperature had dropped to 101 degrees. I readjusted my cold pack and decided to see if I could manage to keep the fever at bay with cold drinks and aspirin. My temperature settled down to between 100 and 101 and I went to sleep.
Things seemed better by morning. My temperature was still a bit elevated but not critical. Hey, I had broken out in a sweat last night--maybe that was a sign I was past the worst. I had arranged for PD to work my Thursday night shift for me, so I could rest and regroup in the hope that Friday would find me healthier.
But the fever returned that evening--102.7 degrees. I revisited the pros and cons of going into town, and even forced myself outside long enough to plug in the truck. Back upstairs, sprawled on the bed, I kept taking my temperature, reading the thermometer and realizing that I was in trouble. I was seriously ill and I was alone. What I had to figure out was if my temperature was going to go much higher--something hard to deduce even with a cool head.
It always comes down to the cats.
Okay, they wouldn’t die if they had to go a couple days without having their litter boxes scooped. They might not like it, there might be a few “accidents” or expressions of disgust left on the floor but floors are cleanable. The boiler in the shop would keep the house warm enough (the furnace blower having burnt itself out on the 13th) even if the wood stove went out, as long as it didn’t get down to zero or below. If I left them plenty of food and water, they’d be okay for a day or so and surely with medical attention my temperature could be down to acceptable levels well before the cats needed attention…
Okay--back on my feet and with painful slowness, I began feeding the cats, putting out extra dry food. I topped off the water dishes and refilled the fountain reservoirs. Twitch and BeBe got extra dishes. If I couldn't lower my temperature, I was going to have to go to town.
Once again, by the time I was finished the exertion had brought out sweat and I was cooling off. Temperature just 100.5. Okay--I'd stay home for now--but I knew I needed to get in to see a doctor first thing Friday.
(to be continued)
