The Cold and Flu Season is Upon Us
The flu is making its way through the Gressel household, and for some odd reason, I’m the only one who hasn’t been dropped over by it. Amazing, ain’t it? The Lovely Mrs. G. washes her hands more than ay person I know (outside of a surgeon, perhaps – or at least we’d like to think so), and yet there she is, suffering with seasonal influenza. Hmmmm...maybe there is something to be said for being slightly grimy. Poor Miss Katie has it, too – she spent yesterday barfing up her breakfast (how’s that for descriptive writing?), and today she’s still down & out.
Meanwhile, I’m okay. Remarkable, since I’m usually the first one to get sick. I’m usually Typhoid Tommy, the germ-giver. But this time I’ve somehow missed it. For now, at least.
I hate getting sick. It would be fun to stay away from work for a couple of days and do nothing but lay on the couch and watch old Disney movies, but right now I have far too much stuff to do to be ill.
I was knocked flat for a week last year with the flu – I’d been a nice guy and gave up my annual flu shot during the shortage, and look what happened. Not this year. Nope; I pushed down half a dozen old men and trampled an old bat who dared get in the way of my flu shot this year. “Look out, you old geezers, Tommy isn’t going to let you stand in the way of his health this winter!”
The sickest I’ve ever been was when I was 19. And amazingly enough, it started on January 1, 1984. I got up and went downstairs, and told my Mom “Geez, I’ve got a huge pimple or something on my back. It sure itches.” She looked, and by golly, there it was – a huge red bump. Next to several more red bumps. By noon I was covered with red bumps.
Chicken pox.
Yes, I was a 19 year old victim of chicken pox, despite the fact that I’d already had them as a kid. My friend Bill’s little sister came home from school with the pox in late September, when then passed onto Bill’s older brother, then to Bill, then somehow to me. And just think – I hadn’t kissed a single one of them.
But this was no ordinary strain of chicken pox – nope, the doctor on January 2 declared them as “super pox”, and I was to be instantly quarantined for the duration of the breakout. Get in your room, and stay there. Don’t pass the pox onto anyone else.
So there I was, cut off from civilization, itching from head to toe with a massive case of chicken pox. They were everywhere – inside my mouth, up my nose (and other orifices which I’d rather not describe in a public forum), underneath my eyelids. I itched like mad, and I went three days without sleeping. The doctor at first said just to take baking soda baths, but that didn’t help. The madness was starting to get to me. Finally he cut me a break and wrote me a prescription for painkillers. Thank God. When I finally slept, I did so for almost 30 hours.
I broke out on New Years Day, and I had the chicken pox through Valentines. 6 weeks. I told you these were “super” pox. I lost 35 pounds in that timeframe; not the best way to do so, but I did.
Finally, the spots receded, and I was allowed to go back out in public around the end of February. It took another month or two for them to all go away – for a while it looked like I just had a bad case of acne. And ever now – some 21 years later – I still have a reminder of the chicken pox – a scar on my shoulder from a pockmark that never went away. Gee, thanks.
Of course, my younger sister broke out with the chicken pox about two weeks after I did, but she only had them for a week or so. But then her asshole boyfriend ended up with them, too, so ha ha. I think the super strain ended after that, but I can’t be too certain of that. Somewhere out there you’ll probably find someone who is packing the germs.
So I’ll go home tonight after class and try to take care of my poor ill family, and be glad that it’s just the flu and not chicken pox. Or measles. Or any other pox. Or even Tourette’s syndrome. (Because it’d be just miserable to try to take care of someone who is cursing you at the same time.)
In the meantime, drink your juice, take a daily vitamin, and...oh, yeah. Wash your hands every now and then.
Meanwhile, I’m okay. Remarkable, since I’m usually the first one to get sick. I’m usually Typhoid Tommy, the germ-giver. But this time I’ve somehow missed it. For now, at least.
I hate getting sick. It would be fun to stay away from work for a couple of days and do nothing but lay on the couch and watch old Disney movies, but right now I have far too much stuff to do to be ill.
I was knocked flat for a week last year with the flu – I’d been a nice guy and gave up my annual flu shot during the shortage, and look what happened. Not this year. Nope; I pushed down half a dozen old men and trampled an old bat who dared get in the way of my flu shot this year. “Look out, you old geezers, Tommy isn’t going to let you stand in the way of his health this winter!”
The sickest I’ve ever been was when I was 19. And amazingly enough, it started on January 1, 1984. I got up and went downstairs, and told my Mom “Geez, I’ve got a huge pimple or something on my back. It sure itches.” She looked, and by golly, there it was – a huge red bump. Next to several more red bumps. By noon I was covered with red bumps.
Chicken pox.
Yes, I was a 19 year old victim of chicken pox, despite the fact that I’d already had them as a kid. My friend Bill’s little sister came home from school with the pox in late September, when then passed onto Bill’s older brother, then to Bill, then somehow to me. And just think – I hadn’t kissed a single one of them.
But this was no ordinary strain of chicken pox – nope, the doctor on January 2 declared them as “super pox”, and I was to be instantly quarantined for the duration of the breakout. Get in your room, and stay there. Don’t pass the pox onto anyone else.
So there I was, cut off from civilization, itching from head to toe with a massive case of chicken pox. They were everywhere – inside my mouth, up my nose (and other orifices which I’d rather not describe in a public forum), underneath my eyelids. I itched like mad, and I went three days without sleeping. The doctor at first said just to take baking soda baths, but that didn’t help. The madness was starting to get to me. Finally he cut me a break and wrote me a prescription for painkillers. Thank God. When I finally slept, I did so for almost 30 hours.
I broke out on New Years Day, and I had the chicken pox through Valentines. 6 weeks. I told you these were “super” pox. I lost 35 pounds in that timeframe; not the best way to do so, but I did.
Finally, the spots receded, and I was allowed to go back out in public around the end of February. It took another month or two for them to all go away – for a while it looked like I just had a bad case of acne. And ever now – some 21 years later – I still have a reminder of the chicken pox – a scar on my shoulder from a pockmark that never went away. Gee, thanks.
Of course, my younger sister broke out with the chicken pox about two weeks after I did, but she only had them for a week or so. But then her asshole boyfriend ended up with them, too, so ha ha. I think the super strain ended after that, but I can’t be too certain of that. Somewhere out there you’ll probably find someone who is packing the germs.
So I’ll go home tonight after class and try to take care of my poor ill family, and be glad that it’s just the flu and not chicken pox. Or measles. Or any other pox. Or even Tourette’s syndrome. (Because it’d be just miserable to try to take care of someone who is cursing you at the same time.)
In the meantime, drink your juice, take a daily vitamin, and...oh, yeah. Wash your hands every now and then.
posted by Tommy G at
9:01 AM
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