It's been a hell of a year.
You may think I'm referring to the current environmental situation, which is enough to make highly trained bodhisattvas decide that enlightenment is not all it's cracked to be and descend en masse upon the nearest dive and start doing Jell-O shots out of each other's begging bowls. Nor is it the international scene, which is well on its way to the kind of chaos and destruction that was nightmare stuff in the halcyon days of that far-gone time called “2016.” It's not even the upcoming election, which promises to make the average demolition derby look like a group of cranky toddlers crashing their pedal cars into the furniture, their teacher's cage, and quite possibly the marmoset cage containing “Mr. Poopy,” their beloved mascot.
No, it's been a hell of a year-end for me for the simple and very personal reason that even though I was a Good Do-Be and got my flu shot last September, the shot didn't work and I got the flu anyway.
I think you can imagine how much joy and delight that brings me.
It started on Thursday morning about 4:00 am, when I woke up coughing and never stopped. By Friday I wasn't coughing as much (just as well since I'd strained my ribcage trying to hack up non-existent phlegm) but I was constantly cold, and by Saturday I was so miserable I finally gave up and somehow dragged my exhausted, shivering self to the local Urgent Care. There I joined four other people, all wearing face masks and looking just as lousy as I felt, scattered about the reception area as they waited to be seen.
Eventually it was my turn, and after a cheerful nurse took one look at me and wrapped me in a warm blanket, I was finally seen by a physician's assistant. He took my temperature, listened to my lungs, swabbed my nose, and then said, “Your lungs are clear but you're running a 101.5 fever. I think you have the flu, not a cold.”
I blearily looked at him, said, “Great,” and then accepted a medical note for the office, a script for Tamiflu, and a bottle of water because I was so dehydrated. Then I returned the nice warm blanket and drove off to my pharmacy to get my meds before I went home and collapsed.
So that's how I spent all but about ten hours of the beginning of 2020: sick at home recuperating from my personal tribute to the 1918-1920 influenza pandemic.
Fortunately I'm feeling much better as of this writing. The fever has broken, my appetite is slowly returning, and I was well enough today to venture outside for a few hours so I could run errands, wash the mounds of laundry I've accumulated since January 2nd, and visit an ATM. I'm back to work tomorrow, at least for a few hours, and will take it from there.
Believe me, the year can only go up from here.
I originally intended to post this on the 4th, but since I spent the entire day either sick as a dog or at Urgent Care, that wasn’t happening. So! Here is what I sure hope is what you'll be seeing in this space this winter, but after the last few months all bets are off. I will do my best, though, and who can ask for more than that?
1/25 – The Spear of Silliness
2/8 – Dr. Doyle and the Dear Little Children
2/22 – Colonial Dames Address Injustice – or Do They?
3/7 – Melancholy Gaels
3/21 – Mr. Bickerstaff's War Upon the Undead Astrologer
4/4 – The Tragic Tale and Possible Non-Existence of Brother John Anglicus
After that, this series will go on hiatus until June 1st so I can a) write my paper for Kalamazoo this year, b) go to Kalamazoo and deliver my paper, and c) recuperate from going to Kalamazoo and delivering the said paper. I might drop in a rewind or two, but it all depends on how the work is going.
Either way, happy 2020!
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