As it is, I think I’m getting better. Either that or the sickness-induced stupor has grown so large I’m no longer questioning this altered reality. That would explain certain events of the day, primarily the spontaneous combustion of my Great Uncle Al halfway through lunch.
“But Caleb, you don’t have a Great Uncle Al,” you may protest.
“Well, not anymore,” I’d honestly reply.
Sigh…
It only gets deeper from here folks. Consider yourself warned.
You’re entering medical dementia –
Population: You
Music: The Growing Pains theme "Cause we go each other,
Sharing the laughter and love (sharing the laughter and love...)"
- I told you my brain wasn’t acting normal
Glarg, ploodle, unct.
Flidder-didder jamm.
Ack, ack, flarool! Meep…
Kris Kristofferson! Queen Lydia Liliuokalani!
Ug…
Okay, while the brain cloud briefly clears, let me pound some stuff out…
I broke a personal rule today.
Personal Rule #168: Sick people should not watch medical shows.
I formulated this rule back in 1999 during my first over-night stay in a hospital (actually, I’d wager I spent a couple nights in the hospital immediately after my birth, but I don’t remember that). It was a Thursday night and I remember praying feverously that my roommate wasn’t an er fan.
Though much observation I’ve found it’s the person who looks like they’re going to die who lives and the simple case that “unexpectedly” crashes in the final five minutes. I was afraid we’d watch the program where a concussion victim looks banged up, but stable, spend most of the program focusing on a guy whose torso was impaled by a mailbox, and switch back in time to watch Dr. Greene valiantly fight a losing battle to resuscitate the human speed bump.
Watching medical shows while feeling sickly is like a romantic reading Romeo and Juliet or spiking the punch at an Alcoholic’s Anonymous meeting. It’s nothing you really want to get started. It will inevitably lead to a confrontation at the refreshments table and the would-be lover will rediscover the often forgotten fact that Shakespeare’s full title started with “The Tragedy of…”
Granted, some of this I’d like to blame on my current physical impairment. I haven’t felt this poorly since I spread chicken pox at the last big Smith family reunion. The pictures of the weekend are quite informative. In every progressive photograph, my eyelids droop even lower. It’s quite obvious I’m a carrier. Of course, as is tradition, I was passed from lap to lap between relatives. Thus, every grandchild or great-grandchild who hadn’t gotten chicken pox yet picked it up in the following week. That’s not the primary reason why we stopped having family reunions, though I’ve wondered if it was a factor.
I’m not going to list symptoms here (other than the mental delusions that are quite obvious). I don’t want to get into a bragging contest. Let’s simply say that, in 91 percent of cases out there, I’d probably win. If you’re in that other nine percent, you have my condolences.
I know this is only temporary and limited. It’s not like I’m about to cough out my stomach lining (something I learned about watching a medical show). It’s doing wonders for my prayer life (there are only a few things that come to mind when you’ve placed yourself in volunteer quarantine and the Master Healer is one of the noteworthy ones).
Also, for as much as I’ve tried to hide it from the people around me, it’s obvious they know. Either that, or after all these years, my relatives have decided to start randomly offering me drugs.
I wish it was over. I wish my body would stop aching like my insides were trying to realign themselves (and had some of the workers go on strike partway through the overhaul). As much as my imagination is revved up by a good fever (my favorite delirious moment was when I thought a doorknob was planning to assassinate me), I’d rather manually enrich the tapestry through books or television.
Okay, the wave has crested and I’m about to wipeout again. Catch you on the flip side.
Glurgle, murgle.
