A long time ago, one set of my grandparents, and my aunt and uncle all lived in the tiny town of Seminole, Oklahoma. It was close enough to where I lived that I got to spend lots of major holidays there when I was a kid. The year I was in sixth grade, we went to my aunt and uncle's house for one of them, and it was the year the oldest of us cousins had his wisdom teeth out. I'm guessing he was about 18 at the time, wrestling on his high school team, and built like a brick wall. He wasn't a really short guy, but he had that solid, low center of gravity stance that I have associated with wrestlers ever since. As a teenage boy, he should have torn through all the turkey and ham and sides like he wasn't going to get a meal again for days. Instead, he was in pain, and he carefully mashed tiny shreds of food with his front teeth, and fought to swallow anything. I remember his brother and one of our other cousins teasing him about it, while at the same time calling it sad, that he was unable to eat anything.
In the long history of holiday gatherings with my family, there is almost always someone who is sick. I have pulled that card more than anyone else. I've had appendicitis, diverticulitis, flu, flu while pregnant (it added a layer of difficulty, so it merits the second mention), and plenty of other ailments like migraines and colds. I'm sick often enough that my family members get mad at me when I'm down for yet another holiday get-together. I don't plan these things, but it sure seems like it to everyone else. From my perspective, it feels like a curse. I don't ever feel like getting up and doing things with the family. I'd like to break out of this routine. I think I've paid more than my fair share of dues here.
Today was a holiday with my Bonfire family, but it played out like one at my dad's, where the worst illnesses always seemed to hit me (I always brought them with me -- let us not pass any blame to my hosts for this). This current flare up started last week, but I was in denial for days. By Sunday, I knew I was in for it, and I stopped eating after lunch that day. I refused to miss out on the concert Monday night, so I powered through the day, avoiding the doctor for fear I'd end up in the hospital if I admitted what was happening. Tuesday morning I called the doc as soon as I woke. He told me not to eat at all, just stick with clear liquids, with the impression that he wanted me to do that for the entire 10 day course of antibiotics. There is only so much apple juice I can stand, and after the first day, even the thought of chicken broth makes me nauseated. I'm not sure I had anything beyond what it took to swallow pills yesterday. By the time I arrived at Bonfire Thanksgiving, I was limp and lifeless. I found a corner of the couch, where the chaise stretched out, I burrowed under a blanket, and I stayed there. I was an uninteresting lump on the couch. I tried to follow conversations, but everyone else there had so much energy and spoke so fast, a lot of it went right past me. One of my friends said my face was as pale as the ecru shirt I wore. But as I promised, I defied doctor's orders. I ate a small plate of turkey, squash, brussel sprouts, and potatoes. And lo and behold, I started to perk up a little bit. I think it was exactly what I needed, even if it wasn't exactly what the doctor ordered.
I'm still going to go easy on myself for a day or more, but for the first time this week, I'm starting to see a way out of this cursed illness. If only I could skip the antibiotics. Yuck.
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