Lessons of the Flu

I have been sick with what must have been—is—the flu for the last ten days.  For the first time in ten days, my fever is within one degree of normal.  For the first time in six days, I am wearing something besides yoga pants.  For the first time in four days, my right eye is not puffy, red, and oozing.  After going through at least one roll of toilet paper (we ran out of tissues) and one box of Puffs plus lotion (Nels bought these special for me because the skin around my nose was raw), I am at last in the mood to be grateful. 

And the days I keep

my gratitude

higher than my

expectations

well, I have really good days

That’s from a song called “Mother Blues” by Ray Wylie Hubbard.  I try to remember it when I am feeling particularly pissy and put upon, as I was for the last two weeks.  Avoiding treacle and sentiment is important to me, so I resist those calls to say what I am thankful for, which usually occur during Thanksgiving and Christmas.  At the same time, I want to be aware of my unearned privilege, as a being born in a particular time, at a particular place, and to particular parents.  I am also aware that this privilege has given me the opportunity to meet my life partner and have a job that is pretty much tailor-made for me.  I am profoundly moved by this.

Perhaps less profoundly, but no less important at this moment when I can breathe through my nose, swallow without wincing, and see clearly through both eyes, I am most grateful to Snowstorm Juno and tissues.  Snowstorm Juno cancelled classes for me, so I was not tempted to go to school when I had no business being there.  One of our favorite cats was named Juno, and it seems her spirit fought for me.  I did not have to shovel snow due to my pathetic condition and the electricity stayed on.  That’s all I wanted. 

And there is the issue of tissue.  Sure, I had to use toilet paper in a pinch, but I had ample, reasonably soft material in which to rid myself of the seemingly endless goo manufactured by my sinuses.  Perhaps because of the blizzard, I was thinking of my Laura Ingalls Wilder books, particularly The Long Winter, which I found to be the most tedious from her series.  Blizzard after blizzard.  Pa going to dig out the train tracks over and over again.  Mary and Laura fighting over whether to have sage or onion stuffing.  “What the hell is sage anyway?”  I wondered back when I read it for the first time.  I now know about sage, so my wonderings turned to what happened when they got the flu.  Kleenex, Puffs, and even Charmin were just white twinkles in the eyes of their inventors, no doubt.  So what did 19^th century folk do?  Of course, then I want to know what they did about toilet paper and now wonder if that folk story about the Sears catalog is true…and did they even have that back then? 

Which brings me back to gratitude.  Maybe I would have been more productive if I had not been sick.  Maybe I would have been more timely with my emails, more attentive to my students, more likely to fill out necessary forms.  Instead, I read two great books, Brown Girl Dreaming by Jacqueline Woodson and A Tale for the Time Being by Ruth Ozeki.  These, on top of reading John Dufresne’s No Regrets, Coyote the week before, reminded me of how important literature is to me.  I would like to think of myself as a writer, but more than anything, I am a reader.  Of all the privileges and identities, earned and unearned, that I have, it has been the most important.  I have a better idea of who I am by reading about who others are.  I am utterly grateful that I am a reader, above all, because that means these last two weeks have not been wasted.  What I know about history, human nature, love, and wisdom comes from books. 

Thank you, flu, for reminding me of that.