The last several times we have visited Indiana, the ancestral homeland for three out of four of our parents and the place we met, fell in love, and lived happily for 13 years, I have gotten sick. I didn’t throw up, I didn’t get hives, I just managed to catch the flu. Nels and I argue about the flu. He says you only have the flu if you are puking up your guts. I say that there is another kind of flu—the kind when a common cold goes on steroids. But more on steroids later.
I’m not sure what it is about Indiana that makes me sick. I told a fellow Hoosier about this phenomenon and she said that the state has toxic air. Every time her nephew visits from Texas he gets sick. But she does live in Highland, near East Chicago, which is, for you non-Hoosiers, where all the factories and mills used to be. I remember going to Chicago with my family and holding my nose as we drove through that section.
It might also be because of the stress of visiting our families, which we do only twice a year. While both sets of parents and siblings have conveniently located themselves in just two cities, albeit three hours apart, it means we try to sweep in and visit both in our trips. While I don’t envy my friends with relatives scattered across the country, trying to figure out whom to visit for the holidays, maybe we are trying to do too much. Or maybe my getting sick is part of the grieving process as I watch our parents age, and my parents, on this particular occasion, part with many of their belongings, including the house in which I grew up and they spent the last 43 years of their marriage.
On the 13 hour drive home, I managed to survive on tissues, multiple bottles of water, three doses of aspirin spaced at four hour intervals (it’s weird how aspirin quits working exactly when they tell you it’s safe to have more), and a McDonald’s cheeseburger and fries. At the time, I didn’t realize my sense of taste had been removed from my body, because the heat and salt and texture of fat made up for it.
The next day was the nadir. I woke up stuffy, swollen, feverish, and headed to the clinic after a shower, two cups of tea, and three crackers. Luckily, nobody was in line ahead of me, but apparently I wasn’t the doctor’s only patient. I had to wait an excruciating five minutes for her to tell me that the x-rays didn’t indicate pneumonia (yay), and that it would take about 45 minutes for my prescription to be ready (boo). This is the first incident that reminded me that Janet being sick is similar to Janet having low blood sugar: irritable and irrational. As I listened to the doctor giving precise directions to her patient on the phone, I was sure she was deliberately making me wait in the freezing curtained room. Should I take off the hospital gown and put on my clothes? Would she want to examine me again? Who the hell puts phone patients ahead of actual patients? I am going to leave. Right. Now. Luckily, the doctor wrapped up her phone call before I could storm out. She informed me my prescription would be ready at Walgreens in 45 minutes. 45 minutes? What? Are they flying the pills in from Canada?
I went home to lie on the couch and texted Nels that he could pick up my meds. Luckily, he had just gotten a new cell phone so I could reach him even though he was running errands. Here was the context of our conversation (please remember what I said about low blood sugar):
Me: I just left a message for the pharmacist to let u pick up the prescription.
Him: Who is this?
Me: Spock. Please fill my scrip for a wheelbarrow full of pounces [Spock is our cat. I thought he was trying to be funny and wanted to go with it]
Him: I don’t think this is who you think it is. Leighton here
Me: Yikes! My bad. Sorry L
Him: No worries. Ha
Me: You’re an asshole.
Me: Which is mean and I’m sorry, but my sense of humor is not working.
So. When Nels came home, he didn’t mention the text exchange, but insisted on going to the drugstore right away, bringing back my meds, and then going to the grocery store, instead of doing all of that in one fell swoop. I interpreted that to mean he was sorry for being a jerk while texting, so I didn’t mention it either. Clearly he was apologetic, and that was all I wanted.
That was Wednesday. The next day, Nels went out of town and I called him late in the day to see when he would be home. Some guy said, “Who IS this?” and I hung up immediately. Through a feverish fog, I realized that PERHAPS Nels wasn’t the one I had texted. I checked again and realized I had transposed one number. Whoops.
Me: I am SO sorry about this msg from yesterday. My husband got a new phone with a very similar number and I thought he was playing tricks on me. I apologize for being a jerk.
Him:
I can only hope that he accepted my mea culpa.
Which brings me to steroids. The day after not being able to do anything but lie prone until it was time to sit up and eat soup and crackers, I felt like I had kicked this thing. Sure, I was still sniffly and coughy, but I felt ready to work. I dragged all the books and papers downstairs needed for one of the classes I was teaching and happily planned what I am pretty sure is an amazing syllabus (I admit I haven’t looked at it yet for editing purposes). I felt magical and capable, busy planning my running and yoga schedule for the next day. Then I talked to my sister. She said, “You have to watch the steroids. They make you feel better than you really are.” The next morning, my neighbor said the same thing. Then my mom called and gave me a similar warning. But I was totally like, “I’m on the ROIDS! I feel GREAT! No wonder baseball players use this stuff!” Nels scoffed at their warnings too. He said, “They are steroids, not heroin.” Damn straight! John Hiatt and Steve Earle in Hyannis Friday night? No problem. Cracker, Big Head Todd, Blues Traveler, and Barenaked Ladies in Boston on Saturday night? Let’s party!
There were some odd side effects, though. I tried a few bites of a ripe avocado and threw it away because it had no taste. Then we were at the Melody Tent having a beer and I realized I literally couldn’t taste it. There was a little sharpness on my tongue from the carbonation, but other than that, I couldn’t tell a Sam’s Summer from a Fosters. What a disappointment.
Fast forward to Monday. I was ready to be well. After all, I had finished the roids and the Z-Pac. Once the drugs are done, you’re done being sick, at least that’s how I remembered it. I don’t get sick very often, and when I do, I rarely go to the doctor, but this was my memory. So I decided I would get back to my weekly mileage of 45-50 miles, starting with eight on Monday. That went okay, probably due to the vestiges of steroids. Of course, I was pretty sure my watch battery was dying, because I did my customary eight miles about seven minutes slower than usual, even though it felt like the same level of effort. I even did yoga that night and felt “cleansed” afterward.
So the next day I was going to do eight miles again; after all, I needed to make up some miles. I did six at a snail’s pace with multiple walks. Suffice to say, the steroids had worn off, just as I had been warned. I was left hot, sniffly…and maybe a little bit grumpy. Sure, steroids are not heroin, but damn if they don’t promise more than they can deliver.
After a second trip to the doctor and a different antibiotic, I am finally feeling better in the real way, not in the steroid way. No way am I going to take that steroid decongestant. I can’t bear the letdown twice in a row.
