I am too sick to write a blog, I am a party hangout for some amoeba who moved in and promptly called his gang out. They’re having quite a time in there, yet keep wanting to leave. Each time I have to see them out, I stumble and I weave. My stomach feels like shattered glass, my head is slightly pounding. I think they’re doing Zumba—flip-flopping and rebounding against my corridors of gut. I wish that they would stop. I can’t make it to the clinic to consult a microbe cop. Is it a parasite or fluke ( contracted from my cat?) When she strokes and kisses them, what cat owner thinks of that? For now, I’m resting in my bed with electrolytes and Flagyl. I’ve cancelled my appointments, for I’m feeling sort of fragile. The world will demonstrate without me, and friends go out to dine while I hang out with tiny guests, miserable and supine.
I had this same bug a year ago, when I had to call off my 70th birthday celebration, much-planned for, because I was so miserable. So, these pesky amoebas seem to be maintaining a schedule. Unfortunately, I had a full day of activities planned today, as well—first of all a demonstration against Trump’s immigration policies, then a visit to my doctor, a visit to an ill friend, and dinner with another friend. All cancelled. Ironic that I’m too ill to go see my doctor. Here’s another little ode to amoebas I wrote during an earlier bout named “Once Upon a Lime in Mexico.”
Generally, I have no desire to disappear. Given my choice, you’d have me around forever. The only exception is when I am ill. In that case, I just want to draw into my shell and disappear. This poem written three years ago chronicles such a time:
Bring me vitamins and soup, but please don’t camp upon my stoop. For when I have the ague or flu, I’d rather not commune with you! I’d rather sink into my gloom sealed up lonely in my room. Sleep as much as I am able, use my stomach as a table.
Leave liquids here beside my bed, but please don’t hover overhead. An angel is appreciated if, once immediate needs are sated, they disappear and leave me to my soggy Kleenex and the loo!
Our night’s rest should meander, releasing us to dreams, but my sleep took me on a trip down other sorts of streams with rapids, eddies, waterfalls that jarred me rough awake. I think that just one night like it is all that I could take. Whenever I lay prone, I had another bout of coughing— with one hack executed, another in the offing. I could not lay my head down to soothe myself to sleep. Instead I slept bolt upright, my covers in a heap around me on the sofa as a cough jarred me awake. Sleeping upright on the sofa does not sweet dreaming make. I longed for my soft bed and former slumbering meanders through crisp rows of wheat stalks and banks of oleanders in search of something still unknown, a peaceful all-night search for those soulful comforts I never found at church. My mother’s laughter once again, my father’s joking ways waiting just around the bend of this nightly maze. Instead, I’ve barely three hours sleep in between my wheezes— my dreams propelled by cyclones instead of gentle breezes. The cold germ is not neighborly. It visits when it pleases and brings unwanted hostess gifts of drips and coughs and sneezes.
As you may have guessed, I’ve come down with a miserable cold. Two poems in one night, one while I was still trying to stay in bed, then another after I moved to sit upright on the couch which at least furnished a half hour of sleep now and then between the coughing bouts. The prompt today ismeander.