I have spent a month sick, in one way or another—coughing, first and foremost. A chronic cough that I could not shake. From a flu.  It was not so bad as to not go about my daily round, but bad enough not to be able to do anything without cough drops and my water bottle to keep the eruptions at bay.

But they were not really kept at bay. I sat through classes and choir practices vainly attempting to hold back my coughing. I was not, however, feeling ill enough to do more than use home remedies and rest a little bit. Just a little bit.

Finally, I was too long coughing and thought something funky was going on with my eyes, I visited the doctor, had an x-ray taken and sent home with the usual rest and fluids instructions. Oh, and medication for conjunctivitis.

Another week of coughing. The conjunctivitis cleared but I began to feel another flu coming on — little fever, sore throat, achy and of course, coughing. I made it through Cheshire’s birthday dinner with a bit of trauma and then could not rally for another week. 

I felt unwell enough to get serious. Getting Julia up and out the door in the morning required a morning nap, putting clothes in the washer another nap, I haven’t cooked in weeks.  I cancelled all my activities and as many of Julia’s as I could.  I didn’t cancel everything at once.  I let go of one rehearsal, one class, one of Julia’s activities—each time thinking that if I didn’t do that particular thing, I could get on with the rest of the week.  

I don’t know what I was thinking!

Passover came and went; we never had or went to no Seder. I could not imagine cooking the simplest diner and sitting long enough to read the Haggadah that was planned especially for Wilbur. I canceled the rehearsals and then the singing for folk music Sunday at church. I skipped my HILR classes and two weeks of rehearsals for a little play that is due to be put on in the middle of May. Ed took Julia to rowing last week and yesterday, Julia just missed it.  I dropped Julia off at Berkeley and picked her up again after her Saturday music classes, napping in between. I skipped two of my weekly zoom meetings and cut another one short. The gardening that I was so looking forward to had to be put on hold—I asked anyone with extra perennials to allow me to help them divide to fill some of the back garden bed.  I had some potentials plants lined up and then had to tell everyone that I could not help or pick up.

Monday, I went back to the doctor. I must have looked pretty awful because during a follow up video check in this morning, the nurse practitioner admitted that she considered sending me to the ER. I was not running a fever but my head hurt, especially around the eyes, I was so stuffed up that I could not hear and of course, there was coughing. I had another chest x-ray which, when compared to the x-ray from two weeks ago, showed an infection. And she also diagnosed a sinus infection — probably had it two weeks ago but it was masked by the conjunctivitis.  

Yesterday, I started on antibiotics, an inhaler and stronger cough medication.  After 3 doses of antibiotic, I do feel a bit more human.  Still napping, not eating well, coughing and not having the ability to focus on anything more than bad tv, but better than Monday. 

And in this short interval between naps as I feel some glimmer of clarity, I need to remind myself of the time and patience it takes to actually heal a broken or sick body. I tend to imagine that I take longer to heal these days because I am an old lady, but it is not just age. I’ve always assumed that nothing could take me down and that a few days healing takes care of everything.  

And that is not true. Never has been. 

I remember David’s impatience about the healing process, evidenced every day, even the day after his heart transplant. We assumed strength that was not there and made mistakes. We did listen to nurses and therapists and doctors’ advice, and then we went our own way.

David was released from the hospital 10 days after transplant which was a bit sooner than was recommended.  When he got home, he insisted that I return the shower stool and the toilet extender because he wanted to get back to normal and didn’t need them.  He cut his physical therapy short and he started back to work sooner than advised. I did not insist on anything and let him proceed at the pace of healing he himself set. His doctor allowed him the same. With 20/20 hindsight, his doctors and I were wrong. David did not know the healing that he needed, and I believe he pushed himself well beyond a safe limit. David was a smart man but he had lived with a faulty heart for a few years, he was accustomed to pushing himself past healthy limits and the new heart, pumping vigorously, must have felt incredible and invincible. I cannot imagine that he would have necessarily lived longer had he surrendered to the healing process, to his body, but I see the process and the surrender as much more important that I knew at the time.  

In the years since David’s death lessons, I’ve forgotten about process and surrender so many times.  Each time like this time, I am brought up short. Once again, lesson learned. There is wisdom in taking good care of myself, of listening, of not pushing too far out there.  

Perhaps there is some hope that this time I will remember.

And now, for slight diversion, Wilbur and Dad discovering the Mama Duck of the duck family from Robert McCloskey’s Make Way for Ducklings (sculpture by Nancy Schön) in the Boston Public Garden.