Hack, hack. Cough, cough. Everyone around me has come down with some kind of respiratory bug lately. Including COVID. How about you?
I have not been sick – yet – and I feel convinced it’s because I take a Mt. Everest-sized pile of ginseng capsules every day. Yes, you’re rolling your eyes and thinking that’s wacky, but look it up. Ginseng not only fights cancer but also fights viruses and bacteria. Yes, it does.
Plus, maybe the Universal Divine Entity has decided I already have enough to deal with, having this pesky cancer and all, so I can be spared some minor aggravations. Not that being sick seems minor to you men out there. You all generally moan and whine over a cold as if you’ve been stricken with polio and need to find an iron lung.
I know I’m generalizing and being sexist, but I don’t care. You know it’s true.
For the edification of the younger people out there, way back in the last century (when no one even had cellphones), there was an epidemic of a viral disease called polio that in its worst form could paralyze people, mostly children. Sometimes the only thing that kept the sufferers alive was to be placed in a metal “lung” that helped them breathe. This actually happened to a friend of mine when she was a child.
It was quite a terrifying ailment at the time, and every parent lived in fear that his or her child would catch it. Fortunately, starting in 1955, a series of vaccines were invented that ended this terrible scourge, so nowadays our kids don’t even know what polio is. Unless you’re an anti-vaxxer, in which case maybe you want to check out the prices on the iron lungs near you. It’s OK. We can wait.
Anyway, it’s rather pleasant to feel smug when you watch everyone else walking around sniffling, coughing and sneezing with a wad of tissue in their hands, while you’re just fine. I guess that’s mean. And I’m pretty sure my karmic reward will be to come down with a raging beast of a cold someday soon.
If I do, then I guarantee my cold will be worse than yours. Because it will be happening to me.
My cancer tends to trump all other forms of illness, being that it’s scary and all that. People will start complaining to me about how they stubbed their toe and it still hurts, and then I can actually watch the thought bubble come into their heads. They stop talking, and gulp. “I guess that seems pretty trivial to you, huh?”
Well, yes, but I hate it when I stub my toe, too. You’re allowed to complain about it once, for 1.2 minutes. Then, move on.
Don’t you wish you could walk around with a stopwatch and give people a time deadline for their complaints? About ailments, mostly, though this could apply to anything else.
Your neighbor stops to chat while you’re walking your dog. You try to dodge behind a tree when you see her, but it’s too late. You’ve been spotted. She walks up and instantly starts complaining about her sciatica, which is a familiar one. “I could barely get out of bed this morning,” she starts her piteous refrain. You pull out your stopwatch and say, “You have two minutes. Now, go!” Although, to be honest, two minutes is a painfully long time to listen to sciatica gripes. No pun intended. Feel free to adjust this as needed.
I guess I’ve reached the age now where I can sit down with an entire table full of friends, and everyone has some sort of long gruesome, tedious tale about health woes that monopolizes the conversation entirely. In fact, no one even notices my new hat. This is a capital offense.
“And then the doctor told me I had to have more tests.” Oh, please. Stop the presses. The doctor told you to have more tests? That’s what doctors do. They order tests and give you pills, before ordering more tests.
I’d rather talk about the sewage spill on the beach, and I will if you don’t shut up. In graphic detail.
Occasionally, I feel like standing up and announcing, “I’ll give $10 to the next person who finds something interesting to talk about that doesn’t involve health.”
Of course, then they might bring up work. My rule about work talk is that I only do it when I’m on the clock. I’m not spending my leisure time talking about my job, even though journalists love to spend endless hours debating and complaining, In fact, on the exceedingly rare occasions I have people over for dinner, I make it a rule that no one’s allowed to talk about work. Unless they’re a sex worker. In that case, tell me all about it. I’d be riveted.
Meanwhile, if you’re sneezing and hacking, I want you to feel free to stay the bleep away from me. How can I be smug about not getting sick if you make me sick? Plus, I’m out of tissues.
