A few days ago, one of my kids stopped by for a visit. On his way out, he started coughing uncontrollably.
“Huh,” the cocky lobe of my brain thought. “It’s been four years since I’ve been sick. I must be quite healthy.”
“You shouldn’t even think that!” my anxiety lobe screamed. “You’ve heard of Murphy’s Law, haven’t you?”
“Ha, ha…” my cocky lobe replied.
My cocky lobe has been very quiet today. I’m assuming it died in the viral onslaught.
I’m sitting here wearing my Sick Nightie—a large, billowy flannel thing that I got from a friend’s dead mother (it’s a long story, but don’t worry—she wasn’t wearing it when she died). I wear this nightgown whenever I am close to death, so my kids will know that they should avoid me—and make their own dinner. My Sick Nightie is so big that a woman pregnant with triplets would find it roomy. I’m also wearing my Winnie the Pooh housecoat. This, too, is reserved for near-death experiences, because I refuse to be found by the paramedics while wearing uncomfortable clothing.
I won’t bore you with my symptoms. Suffice it to say when I went online to find out what was wrong with me, google said I either had:
a) The bubonic plague
d) Mad cow disease
I went to bed mid-afternoon, hoping I could sleep off the worst of my symptoms. After shivering uncontrollably for several hours, I finally fell into a brief, restless sleep punctuated by dreams of falafals.
So here I sit, Typhoid Brenda, shunned by everyone who’s still healthy. As soon as this fever dies down, I’ll be making a Voodoo doll of the kid who gave this to me (you know who you are).