Who Dat/Let's Get Ill

Today I was pathetic.

Woke up feeling a lot like death. I had a fever and a throat so sore just the thought of swallowing gave me heart palpitations. Called a sub for work. Took some night time cold medicine and went back to sleep.

Woke up later and made a doctor's appointment. Watched Inglorious Bastards in pieces as I waited for the time to come.
The time came. 1:50 pm and I drag my shaky self downstairs, put on a jacket and head out to my car. The sun is painfully bright. My whole body feels like it was beaten the night before. All I can think about is getting some pills from the doctor and then maybe a smoothie because the cold mush sounds like a band aid for my throat.
I let out a sort of "Iwishmymomwashere" type of groan and turned the key.

Nothing.

F-you-and-your-plan-to-feel-better type silence.

Betty the Buick and I are on rough terms right now. She did so well getting me all the way here from Bellingham, and well for the year after that. Lately though... the electrical parts have been fish-fickle. Betty, you're breaking my heart.

So I'm stuck out in the street, going through a mental list of friends who are a) good enough to call a favor in from and b) not at work and c) close by. There was a minute of panicky loneliness. Then I called O'Neil. Cool next door neighbor who often is handy with household tools, barbecues, and teaching me about football. He came to the rescue (looking a little Lebowski with his big jacket, athletic shorts, and leftover eye-black from last night's game).*

The doctors' office was how doctors' offices usually are- except that everyone was saying "Who dat!" more often than usual. They get you all excited by calling you in pretty quickly... and then once the nurse takes your vitals and you know that at least by one measurement you really are ill- she leaves and the world seems to forget you exist for what seems like an eternity. I started imagining some new nurse misplacing a sheet of paper absolutely essential to my treatment. Quick montage: My chart falls off a cluttered desk to the floor. Gets brushed under the rolly chair. Cut to me asleep on uncomfortable lounge-with-stirrups and butcher paper. The moon comes up. The stars come out. Me as a skeleton. With a beard.
So I lied there on the crinkly paper, trying to find the least painful position, and texting folks about getting a ride back post appointment. I read the poster for diabetics three times.

Finally I got to see the doc, and I even managed to make some jokes before bursting into tears when she did the swabby-at-the-back-of-your-throat thing. (Those are gag q-tips. That's all they are.)

Then I got the most painful shot of my adult life (apparently, I have to cross my fingers that my muscle doesn't begin to dissolve), and a small library of prescriptions.

After my next fever-spike wore off and I could cease fanning myself like someone going through menopause, I started to walk to the smoothie place. I chuckled for a second at how I was leaving the doctor's feeling worse than when I came in. My sense of humor was quickly diluted though by another onset of chills and a sort of blasting arm pain.

I cursed a little and kept walking, tears of exhaustion welling up behind my hip red shades.

I'm so miserable at this moment I consider calling a cab to take me to Smoothie King and then to Walgreen's to pick up my prescription. Maybe it would make me feel famous.

I'm not crying anymore- but I can't bring my face to smile- which is something its very accustomed to doing. But apparently to the folks of Algiers, horrendously ill and emotional girl = hot stuff. Therefore you must honk and wave out of car windows.

After five blocks, I realized Smoothie King was not that far down de Gaulle. I needed to turn back the other way. I took a seat on the curb of a bank parking lot to regroup.

Finally I did, and I got my smoothie, some mac-n-cheese, and $100 worth of prescription meds whose side affect warnings make me wonder how much good they really do.

Tucker (aka Robert, Tuck, Mr. Tucker, coach, Robert Q-Matic), roomie and one of my best buds here in Nola, came to pick me up at the pharmacy. He took me home, made me tea, and loaned me his copy of Purple Rain.

Then another friend called and offered to come over and make me miso soup.

I feel much better already.


*Last night was mayhem in New Orleans. Peaceful mayhem, though. Apparently there were no violent crimes reported during the whole extent of the game! Now that's saying something! Also, O'Neil said when they got off the ferry on the other side last night, people were hanging from the rafters. On Canal street, people just got out of their cars and were dancing in the street.
Right when the game ended, after the initial living-room eruption took a breath, we went outside, where our small quiet street had turned into an insta-party. People were running down the streets screaming. Handmade signs, kids in jerseys, adults with champagne. Hugs and high-fives with strangers. It was amazing.