Convalescence
How did your week go? Mine was rather interesting for the fact that two events occured almost simultaneously. First, a vicious Canadian cold front crashed into the city like a bull charging the buffet line at a wedding. No hint of the oncoming storm was given to those of us who like to live dangerously by avoiding the forecast, which made it all the more exciting. Right in the middle of a rare February afternoon when one could, if one was so inclined to be the talk of the neighborhood, actually lie in the backyard hammock, the temperature dropped from 73 degrees to 38 degrees in one hour. The only clue before the whirlwind struck was a whispering breeze that seemed to rise in intensity by mid-day, as if a soloist whistling across the rivers and hills was joined each minute by another member of the chorus. As I sat in my examining room interviewing a patient I became distracted by what sounded like an squadron of fighter jets outside my window. This was the storm, which brought hail, rain and snow to the city. Now as I type this my thermometer displays a single number, and that number is six. My family is asleep. The dog and I are fighting over the afghan, and if this was a professional wrestling match I would be on the mat, semi-conscious, about to receive a canine Banzai chop.
Pardon me while I look for another blanket.
The other event of the week was I came down with a nasty virus - what we typically call a “cold.” This too announced itself like the storm, first with a slight tickle or maybe a bit of phlegm mysteriously appearing in the back of the throat, certainly nothing so alarming as to dial up an ambulance escort to the local emergency room. When I first became aware of the change in my body’s forecast I did what many doctors do when they suspect a cold coming on - I ignored it. Far be it from me to cancel my day and rush home to a likely unsympathetic family while my dear patients have to muddle through the week without my help.
One pays a price for such legendary undauntedness, I suppose. By the time I arrived back home to the log cabin the arctic wind was shaking the rafters almost as violently as I was shivering. The skies spat out great gusts of sleet all over the streets, while I blew my nose with equal vigor. The overall mood was dark gray, both outside and inside, and exhaustion set in around 6 P.M. Now only sleep can cause the world to turn and bring back sunny skies, and sleep is exactly what I did. My ally is now the clock, for with the passing of each hour the frozen grip on our city loosens, just as my cold will soon melt away. In fact, it won’t be long until my buddies the talented song sparrows warble the birth of spring as I lace up my shoes for the first run of the season - each of us the picture of health.
If only cancer, the unwanted storm, would leave us as predictably as the turning of the seasons. If only.
