saint-louise's Diaryland Diary
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Break out the funeral wreaths. We're gonna have a party.
So, hi. I’m dying.
If I had been a girl with intelligence and foresight earlier this week, I would have awakened on Tuesday morning, feeling slightly achy and sniffly, and I would have thought:
Hmmm. I don’t feel quite right, and I’d really like to take the day off. But what if in a couple of days I wake up, arise from my cocoon to take a shower, start coughing, and suddenly my body attempts to expel one or both of my lungs from my body cavity through any available orifice?
What if, as I’m blow drying my hair, I very unexpectedly sneeze, jerking my head forward and almost knocking myself unconscious on edge of the bathroom counter?
What if…WHAT IF…my body hurts so much from being wracked with coughing fits all night that my daughter walks in to my room in the morning to ask for help with her belt and finds me weeping in agony simply from attempting to bend over and fasten the buckles on my shoes?
And I would have dragged my worthless, whiny ass out of bed and gone to work on Tuesday.
By 8:00 am, I had recovered well enough from my morning spent attempting to break up the five ton block of phlegm that had been installed in my chest and sinuses while I was sleeping. I was pleased with my ability to cope. I was feeling proud of my bravery in the face of this debilitating, life-threatening illness otherwise known as the common cold (on steroids, at least, really). And I felt secure in my new-found knowledge that if I sat on the toilet seat lid with my head between my knees, I was much less likely to hallucinate from lack of oxygen when gasping for breath after a hacking fit.
It was a beautiful morning, my dears. I wish you all had spent it with me, don’t you?
Yesterday evening I walked out of my office, planning to go home and die a tragic, lingering death, attended by my sweet offspring who – having recovered brilliantly from a minor bout of the sniffles a few days ago (I think she’s a cyborg) – would hold my hand, pat it softly, and say, full to the brim with empathy, “Mommy, I’m sorry you’re sick. But you are being so wimpy right now, I’ve decided to begin my adolescent phase known as Blatant Shame of my Parents about six years early. Can I go out and play now?”
With this comforting image in my head, I walked down the hall to the elevators and passed a co-worker’s office, where I paused to say good-night, hoping for a dose of pity. I mean really. I was looking dreadful. Truly, honestly godawful. To be honest, the only perfect word to describe my appearance was used.
Co-worker looked up and wrinkled his brow at me, the apparition of death in his doorway. “Huh,” he mused. “I’ve never seen you wear your hair back before. It looks…different.”
I swayed a little, and sniffed.
“It’s not bad looking, really,” he continued. “Just…different.”
I stared at him for a few seconds, waiting for the saliva to build up in my mouth. Then I coughed as spittily as I could in his direction, and left.
That’s me, children. That’s all me. Just…different.
Different from what, I have yet to figure out.
9:48 a.m. - 2002-10-10
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