It was a cold Tuesday in January when Tom and I had a lovely salmon dinner with rice and hot borscht. A side of 1783 Bourbon seemed the perfect touch. We called it an early eve, and away he and Mocha drove into the dimming, almost full moon night.
The following day offered perfect hiking weather, though I could feel a bug was after me. It was too quick to have contracted a virus from Tom, so I surmised someone at church must have blown a germ in my direction. Nevertheless, some little guy was knocking at immunity’s door and my white blood cells were already suited up.
That night, the usual tell-tale signs of a cold hit for hours—the persistently dry sore throat that DayQuil and throat spray couldn’t ease. Thursday morning, I was exhausted and definitely ill, so I canceled my hair appointment and lunch date, and later, just to be safe, I canceled my Friday lunch date too. Good thing.
Seems when I’m sick, my typical hypervigilance flies out the window, and I simply focus on putting one foot ahead of the other or just sitting, staring at pages of someone else’s written words. So when the doorbell rang around 2:00 in the afternoon and a guy asked for Aspen, my daughter, I squinted to see if I could read his name badge, but my legal blindness really means I’m legally blind. I said she lived in another state, which is sort of true on a couple levels, so he ran diagonally across the street to his roaring muffler and Jeeped away.
Retrospectively, I should’ve asked who and why, but didn’t.
My eyeballs ached, my scalp hurt, my hearing was amplified, my normally ultrasensitive mind and body had increased at least tenfold. Even my hair hurt. What was even more unusual, though, was a complete lack of desire for drinking alcohol. I didn’t even think about it, and eventually when the thought flew by, it made me feel sick.
So I took a covid test Friday and passed with flying colors.
Sunday I skipped church but threw my carcass outside for an arduous mucky hike that made my usual four miles seem like eight. Ditto Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, still feeling wounded—but dry. Even when Tom was having drinks, I had no desire.
But the real epiphany hit early Wednesday, January 31, 2024, before I got out of bed.
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I saw myself as a young child, having been born prematurely, missing a layer of tissue on all parts of my body, which could be why I’ve always been so sensitive. Along with the physical deficiency came my ultrasensitivity to feeling others’ emotional, mental, and physical pain. To guard my soul from all the pain my parents inflicted on me within the womb and after birth, I developed a predisposition to mind-numbing pursuits so I wouldn’t feel as much suffering. (It didn't help that Mom used to pour brandy down my throat when I was four years old to help "soothe" my strep.)
But by feeling the misery of illness, I acquired the ability to handle life a little better. The healthy side being born from being unwell.
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