The Boobonic Plague

Today, we celebrate the anniversary of the bubonic plague outbreak that decimated Europe between 1347 to 1750. Well, technically, I’m celebrating the plague outbreak that decimated me last Wednesday and Thursday—it was a long two days, and I’m fishing for sympathy, here.

I’m not 100% sure how this happened—I haven’t (to my knowledge) been anywhere near a flea-bitten rat since living in a grungy apartment during my university years. But I was, very briefly, in a room full of snotty babies and toddlers last week, so I’m pointing an accusatory finger at those little trolls.

My plague started out mildly enough—a little bellyache, a little bloating…nothing too serious. But within hours I’d been slammed with a high fever, severe abdominal pain, vomiting, dizziness, muscle weakness and other assorted symptoms that harkened impending doom. My white blood cells had glimpsed Flu-mageddon and had abandoned me.

I remember, clearly, the moment when I knew death was imminent. It was Thursday, and I was staring at a glass of wine that I could not drink. That’s right. I had already missed my Wednesday night glass of wine—I’d been busy vomiting at the time—and now my Thursday glass was sitting, untouched, on the counter. I covered the wine with saran wrap and put it in the fridge—my kids, I decided, could use it to toast me at my funeral.

But, somehow, I survived. Yes, despite the virus, the vomiting and the melodramatic self-pity, I survived.

And I’m here to tell you that Ingrid Bergman was right: “The secret to happiness is good health and a bad memory.” I’ve had several glasses of wine since recovering from that near-death experience, and I’m not only healthy, now, I’m already losing my memory of that horrid event. Cheers!