I caught a cold recently and was ready to draw up my will. I remember the old days when a head cold was taken in stride as I went on about my life. I think I’m getting pay-back for the time I came home from work and found my new husband in bed.
Me: “What are you doing in bed?”
Husband: “I have a cold!”
Me: “Well, it’s not like you’re really SICK. All you have is a COLD,” as I huffed out of the room.
Fast forward to now. My sad saga began with sneezing spasms, followed by coughing up my toenails. My stuffy nose was hell-bent on smothering me and I croaked like a frog when I tried to talk. (My husband loved that, since it discouraged my scintillating conversation.)
What happened to the intrepid girl who snuffled off to work, where I probably caught the bug? I remember that first year of teaching, I spent more days sick than well. Maybe it was being closed up daily with five classes of 25 kids each, with always at least one sick. Never once, however, did I consider going to the doctor. After that first year, I was TEFLON WOMAN. Nothing fazed me and I got pretty smug about it, to tell the truth.
Fifty-plus years later, the worm has turned. After that first day of non-stop misery I couldn’t hot-foot it to the doctor fast enough. I considered throwing myself at his feet, clutching his legs and begging, “Give me DRUGS.” But I decided that was a bit over the top. Luckily, the kind man saw the desperation in my eyes and wrote me a prescription quickly, probably to keep me away from him.
When my kids were young and sick enough to miss school, I’d settle them in bed, then whisk to the nearby pharmacy to pick up their prescription. While there I’d always buy some little surprise to keep them quietly occupied, like a new coloring book, or maybe a box of crayons. I stopped buying Magic Markers after I couldn’t get the darned colors out of the sheets.
So after my whiny trip to the doctor’s office, I decided to be my own mother. While I waited for my drugs, I browsed the shelves and found a slick magazine, published by National Geographic, about dogs. I plunked down the $15 for my “prize,” and never thought twice.
Sometimes even us tight-fisted Old School patients need a treat.
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