Every other year I get a really bad case of bronchitis and this year was no exception to that pattern. Now I am not generally inclined to be philosophical when I’m sick, especially with a 101 degree fever and a cough that is rattling the rafters, but there was one brief moment when I wished I could just die and get it over with.
The first night after the diagnosis I came home from the doctor with a handful of prescriptions that I hoped would make me feel better or at least knock me out. By 1 AM they had done neither and I decided to call it a night.
Ryan was already asleep in our room so I decided to sleep in the guest room; I knew that in the morning he would regard this as a selfless act, mainly because the mattress in the guest room is so uncomfortable it guarantees that any house guest cannot last more than 2 nights. But my motives were considerably more venal: I did not want to take the chance of infecting Ryan.
Ryan and I have very different approaches to being sick: my preference is to be left alone and suffer in stoic silence, once I am sure that everyone knows I am suffering stoically. Ryan on the other hand requires 24/7 attention when he is ill; I knew my life would not get any easier if Ryan caught what I had.
So now I got my favorite, threadbare blanket, the one my mom would throw over me when I was sick as a little boy, and my phone, and a glass of water and some Kleenex and I was set. I gave Ali and the two cats their treats and firmly closed the guest room door.
I had just dozed off when I felt a huge, heavy weight on my chest and felt that sense of momentary panic you get when you think you are suffocating. It was Haley, all 20 pounds of her curled on my chest and purring happily. For one brief moment I wondered how she got in but then I remembered that after we converted all of our doorknobs to levers our big dog Ali can open any door in the house. Sighing I pushed Haley off but she came right back, curling up against my right side.
Several minutes later I felt a sharp “pins & needles” sensation on my foot; this was a new symptom for me until I discovered that Parker, the junior cat, had burrowed under the covers and was biting my toes, perhaps to see if I still alive. I managed to manipulate him out but then, annoyed, he decided to lay on my pillow so that he could bite my ear every time I dozed off.
It was a strange restless sleep populated with weird dreams. At one point I dreamed that I was in my grandmother’s garage with was always hot and humid and musty. I woke up with a start and found Ali, concerned, standing over me breathing her hot dog breath right in my face.
“Good dog, Ali,” I said and relieved, she licked my face and laid down on my left side, thereby ensuring that thanks to the three animals a mummy would have more room to move.
I woke up at 7 AM not feeling any better or well-rested. The three animals were still on the bed, curled into a tight little 12-legged ball.
At 9 Ryan came in and all three animals stretched luxuriously. “You look awful,” he told me. “How did you sleep?”