The Week in Review: Plague Edition

Tuesday: Woke up with a not-so-great feeling which quickly turned into an “Oh, no!” feeling, which resulted in my sprawling across the bed, panting and moaning for Jesse to take me to the doctor’s office. Fortunately, The Plague began before Jesse had left for work. I remembered our friend M., who had something along these lines a few weeks ago and landed in the hospital, so after an hour or so of it’s-not-stopping, I asked Jesse to call my doctor, whose office is a full thirty minutes away, on the direct opposite side of town. I fervently wished doctors made house calls and spent a few moments mourning the fact that I do not live in France. But then I gave that up, because I had to attend to the complicated task of putting on the clothes Jesse laid on the bed for me, and that demanded my full concentration.

Once at the doctor’s office, I collapsed on a bench in the waiting room, curling up on it as Jesse went to fill out whatever address-update form they needed. Grimacing and all-but-groaning, I realized that I was the person people look at and think, “Jeez, I had to pick today to come get a flu shot…” I hoped that my pitiful and contagious-looking condition would encourage a nurse to come get me soon, ushering me from the watchful gazes of the waiting room and into someplace where I could want-to-die in private.

Eventually, that happened, and they were kind enough to give me a room near the bathroom, which I made frequent use of. Finally, the doctor arrived, pronounced me ill and contagious, and sent someone in to give me a shot. She suggested I try two ounces of Pedialyte at a time when we got home, to try and stave off dehydration. Well. Let me say, two ounces seems a lot less going down than it does coming back up.

Wednesday: Somehow, I managed to survive Tuesday and kept a whole three ounces of Pedialyte down before bed. To illustrate just how sick I was, I couldn’t even watch LOST. It was that bad. I spent Wednesday largely in bed, dutifully drinking every glass of water, Gatorade, and Pedialyte Jesse brought. At this point, Jesse decides it would be a splendid idea to get a cold. Smart boy, that one.

Thursday: Thursday I realized I don’t know how bad things have to get before we will ask for help. I was weak as a cat (where does that expression come from? If you know Oliver, you’re laughing right now), Jesse had run out of cold meds, and we had no food. This last one, apparently, is the unintended consequence of attempting to eat as few processed foods as possible: You don’t have a supply of microwavable food at your fingertips. Nor do you have much of anything that comes in cans, boxes, or plastic pouches. You don’t have much of anything that doesn’t have to be cut or mixed or simmered. Which is normally fabulous. But, see: Tuesday and Wednesday. At this point, Jesse is full-blown sick, and even when he’s well he doesn’t cook, so I’m not sure what he would come up with while ill. So, I decided to attempt soup. Which I pulled off rather well, all things considered—a Thai-inspired coconut milk/chicken stock soup with a little cilantro I noticed just randomly sprouting in our garden spot a couple weeks ago. But when dinner rolled around, I had less energy than at lunchtime and had to pause to sit on the kitchen floor and feel sorry for myself at least once while scrambling eggs.

The funny thing is, multiple people asked us before this point if we needed help and we said no. Apparently, we need to be on death’s door before we’ll answer that question with a “Sure, how about you make us some dinner?” Our friend Rachael, though, took a different approach. She said, “Hey, I’m bringing you dinner Friday night. What do you want?” So, sitting on the floor, eggs cooking on the stove above me, I thought, just make it to Friday. Just make it to Friday.

Friday: I decided that the house needed to be cleaned. Actually, I needed the house to be cleaned, if I was going to start feeling any better. You know you’re getting a little better when you can notice a mess and the yucky way a bathroom smells after someone’s been sick in it. And recovery is just not possible if the sheets aren’t clean. So Jesse and I shuffled around the house for the first half the day, bleaching and wiping and mopping up. I opened the windows and let the breeze in, to mix spring smells with the smells of cleaning products. Friday afternoon, I paid for my attempts by being completely exhausted, and didn’t leave the couch until Rachael came by to bring us food.

Saturday: Jesse and I, deciding we could not possibly take watching any more television or movies, spent the evening listening to 80s music. I had a craving for chocolate and realized I had ingredients for brownies, real brownies, so I baked them and felt a sense of accomplishment.

Sunday: I made it to the church for our second Congo team meeting. On my way in, I saw a friend, who visibly recoiled when she saw me, convinced I was still carrying The Plague (or else she just didn’t like my hair). I shrugged it off. Funny, since she was just in a building with, oh say a thousand other people, shaking their hands and breathing their air. I should be the least of her worries. Had a great time at the meeting, even though I still felt foggy and slow. More Congo goodness to come soon…

Which brings me to today, Monday. I am still slow, still foggy, still feeling dizzy and unsteady. But the house is in better shape and Jesse’s back at work and there’s still the pan of brownies. The windows are back open and there’s stuff for sandwiches in the fridge. One afternoon when we were recovering, Jesse and I sat outside after eating and watched a storm roll in, the sun breaking through dark clouds and making the sky look epic and I thought, it was okay, this week, it was okay to be stuck inside together, the sick caring for the sick, because that’s what we do, and then when we have survived it we sit in our backyard and watch a thunderstorm form, and we think the sky has never looked so lovely.