Languidly rising to the surface, I feel the lateness of the hour. Lying face down, I struggle to open eyes compressed by cotton-covered down and turn to face the only window in the room for confirmation. Daylight…
I wouldn’t have thought lawn-mowing a typical Tuesday morning activity. But there it is; a sound usually reserved for the occasional late Saturday morning. On Tuesday, though, it feels out of place. The slits of my eyes lower as I consider the sound. From my supine position in the back of the house, it’s impossible to discern the direction of the offense, and before I decide to care, sleep comes.
Snores, my own, rouse me several times until I make the effort to turn, and sleep comes again.
I reach for the telephone to quiet it.
“Oh, are you still sleeping? I’m sorry…” I’m sure there was more, but it’s gone now.
As a person for who sleep is an elusive luxury, the ability to turn, tuck, and snore is something to be relished. It only hurts when I move…
The telephone rings again. Desperate to quiet the clamor, I reach towards an empty cradle. The ringing continues. I turn in my stupor. Groaning, I roll towards the empty side of the bed over a hard object which grinds against my hip, turning my groan into a grimace. Though muffled, the ringing continues. Rolling back the way I had come, I pull the phone from my hip and press “talk”.
“You’re still in bed? You’ve been in bed all day!” There must have been more, but I can’t recall.
I look at the clock for the first time all day; 3:15. I marvel at the ache in my joints, as my own voice begins chiding me silently. “You haven’t taken your herbs. Of course, you’re achy; you haven’t taken your herbs.” I sit with that.
Ingesting medication requires eating. Eating requires standing, and walking, and using my hands. I shoo the sheets from my legs, will myself into an upright position, and shuffle the miles to the kitchen. A lone, brown, boiled egg sits inside a white, glass bowl. I peel it over the trashcan amidst whimpering dogs, hoping to take advantage of my weakened condition. As I eat food some people shun because of its smell, I neither smell nor taste as I pat myself on the back for my choice. Protein, the building block of life…
I turn on the television, and my finger instinctually dials up “The Guiding Light”. Raised by a mother who began her television day with “The Secret Storm”, the CBS soap opera schedule soon became part of our DNA, and 3:00 means “The Guiding Light”.
They’re shooting it differently. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but something is different. The faces are all the same but the setting is different. I don’t like it. The scene changes and a female newcomer, who can’t have been a part of the show for more than ten years, begins talking to a man I think I remember.
“Is that Harley?”, I wonder.
I always liked Harley. I think I read recently that she is leaving the show. Could this be her replacement? I focus on their faces to the point of deafness. Their conversation escapes me as their relevance becomes clear.
“No wonder. I never liked her.” My silent discourse continues, and as the credits roll I point the remote.
Swallowing a handful of pills I return to my cocoon of blankets. Shane will be home in twenty minutes.
His rubber-soled footfalls wake me. I wonder that he didn’t stop at my room as the door to his slams, only to open within seconds. He approaches stealthily, checking for signs of sleep.
“Hey, Mom…”, he stage whispers.
“Hey.”, I croak. “Stay away.”
“Okay…”, he pats the mound of my blanketed hip.
His presence makes me a mother, holding sleep at bay. I think to encourage homework, but can’t afford the effort, hoping instead that his father will remember.
A second set of foot-falls echoes down the hall. Drawers are opened and closed.
“Should I feed the dogs?” The words travel some distance before reaching me.
“Yes, please.” I’m grateful for his thoughtfulness.
Twelve paws dance chaotically as two males voices attempt to corral one animal into each room with a bowl of kibble.
I awaken to a quiet house.
My phone is chirping, and I think, again, how much I love the sound of that alert. Who doesn’t like the sound of birds chirping?
“Yeah?” He feigns indifference.
“I saw you called.”, I say with a voice I shouldn’t be using.
“When you didn’t call back, I figured you were at work or really sick. When you didn’t even text, I knew you were sick.”
“Yeah…”
“Did you go to the doctor?”, he asks as though the trip should be anticipated.
“No. I’ve been sleeping.”
“Well, you need a z-pack. Okay, okay, now look…” And he was off.
I almost forget how much it hurt to smile.
Hanging up, I sit at the computer for several minutes, wondering if sweating would be of any value. The telephone rings again.
“Stacye?” I work for this voice.
“Yes?”, I croak.
“How are you feeling?”
“Not good.”, I manage.
“Okay…I meant to call earlier today, but…”, he leaves the rest unsaid, knowing I can fill in the blank.
“Do you have a fever?”, he asks authoritatively.
“Yes.”, I answer with shame.
“Tamiflu. You need Tamiflu. And, my witchdoctor wife is plying everyone with elderberry. Get some elderberry.”, he orders.
“Okay…”, I reach for a pencil, afraid that this conversation, too, will evade memory.
“It’s H1N1.”, he pronounces. “And you are contagious twenty-four hours before, and twenty-four hours after, you know…so you can’t come back to work tomorrow.”
“Okay…” Uncaring, I envision crawling back into bed.
Who needs a doctor when you have a boss with a witchdoctor wife?