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 19th 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.
