Lucy and Shirley and Duane
Every year I pay my doctor $25 for a flu shot and every year, just as surely as the swallows fly back to Capistrano, I get the flu. Something’s wrong here.
My doctor’s name is Duane. When I ask him about it, he explains by saying they must be strains of flu not covered by the inoculation. Why aren’t they? He shrugs. That’s not his department.
He doses me on antibiotics and decongestants and makes a doctor-type effort to cheer me up by saying I am not alone. He has seen 14 similar cases in three days. Go home, drink fluids and don’t let the dog jump on your stomach.
I am talking about the flu because I’ve had it. But this is no ordinary flu. History will record that in 1918, 20 million people throughout the world died of the Spanish Flu. In 1997, Al got the L.A. Flu and threw up.
It is an evil and unholy disease, beginning deceptively with a scratchy throat and ending with a call to the Neptune Society. In between, one simply survives, if one is able.
A friend who is into biofeedback said I ought to use my imagination to visualize the evil virus being attacked by brave little Antibiotic Soldiers.
I did. The Virus Army overwhelmed the Antibiotic Soldiers, looting their cities. “If you weren’t as sick in the head as you are in the body,” my friend said, “you might be well today.”
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Every year I wait for Shirley Fannin to fill me in. She’s director of disease control for the county health department. Her job is not to actually control the disease but to identify it and discuss its parameters. Only God controls diseases.
Shirley appears on television like a universal mother figure to say, “Not to worry, Al, it’s not an epidemic, it’s just you. Eat some chicken soup.”
Counting my wife, Cinelli, Shirley is one of three women in my life. The other is Lucy Jones, a seismologist for the U.S. Geological Survey. Whenever the earth trembles, there is Lucy on the telly saying, “Stay calm, Al, it’s only an aftershock and will not topple your workroom or frighten your dog.”
“WHY IS EVERY SHAKE AN AFTERSHOCK?” I shout, but no one answers. It just is, that’s all.
Some day they will both come at once, a flu outbreak and an 8.7 aftershock of the 1992 Landers quake, and there will be hell to pay. Not from the calamities but from Shirley and Lucy fighting for air time.
About the dog. It is probably not recommended that one get a new pet while ill, but it worked for me. When I announced during my Unsick Period that Hoover had died, I was overwhelmed with offers of a new dog.
We took Barkley, a 7-month-old Springer spaniel, owned by Suzanne Childs, media director for the D.A.’s office. She loved the dog but gave him up when he growled at Gil Garcetti. It was either that or ship him off to the Downey office with other members of the office who had growled at the chief.
We bonded, Barkley and I, when he bounced into my bedroom and jumped on my stomach. I had to get well to protect myself.
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Duane warned that the flu could turn into pneumonia for those over 50, into which category I, alas, fall. “I hear wheezing,” he said, listening to my chest, and upped my medication.
Cinelli could hear my nose whistle due to congestion. “All these years I’ve had to put up with your mindless humming,” she said, “and now it’s your whistling nose. I hesitate to speculate on what might come next.”
Warnings abounded. Beware of eye infections. Watch for signs of faltering kidneys. A neighbor said he knew someone whose appendix had burst because of the flu. My daughter’s rabbit Nora suffered a virus that made its teeth crooked. “Now,” she said unhappily, “Nora bites into her own gums.”
The most severe warning came from a friend who said his wife got the flu and was mugged. When I failed to make the connection, he explained that the flu had disoriented her, causing her to get lost and to drive into a gang area. When she stopped to use a pay phone, someone stole her purse.
“It was the A Virus,” he explained. “Be careful. Crime and influenza go hand in hand.”
I’m back but shaky. Barkley is at my feet now and not on my stomach, waiting for an opportunity to use my computer. Sit, Barkley! Write, Barkley!
I can still visualize the war between the evil Virus Army and the brave little Antibiotic Soldiers. The Antibiotic Soldiers are in full retreat, but wait. . . . Here come Shirley and Lucy and Duane! They’re smashing the evil army to bits! Thank God, we’ve won!
The evil flu is gone, but I think I’ll keep its nose whistle.
Al Martinez can be reached online at al.martinez@latimes.com.