Here’s a sure cure for the flu: staying at home a few days
I AM ONE GIANT GERM, INFECTIOUS AS A church giggle, potent as a poison kiss. With one cough, I could probably wipe out Cleveland. Not that I’d ever want to do that. But I could.
“Dad, are you all right?” the little girl asks.
“Shhhh, let your father sleep,” her mother says.
They have surrounded me here on my bed, a sort of tribal council, estimating my chances of recovery, but keeping their distance, you know, not taking any chances here on the cusp of the holiday season.
They have never seen their dad in bed in the middle of the week like this. This could be serious.
Who’ll drive them to the movies? Who’s going to take out the trash?
“He’s breathing like the dog,” the little girl says.
“He has a fever,” their mother explains.
“I think he’s a little congested,” says the boy.
They place cool rags on my forehead, pat my knee gently and fluff my pillow. In my fevered state, they look like Van Gogh figures dressed in Gap clothing.
The girl brings me water. The boy brings me sunflower seeds and beer nuts.
“Is he going to be OK, Mom?”
“He’ll be fine,” she says.
“He doesn’t look that great,” the boy notes.
This flu came on slowly, at work no less. Co-workers were going home sick in droves. A week or two passed.
Beware of doorknobs, the doctors warned. Get your flu shots now.
Then the symptoms started, coming in 20-minute increments, like cable news updates.
* Head full of spiders.
* Throat full of knives.
* Barry White’s diesel voice
* A lethargic, do-nothing demeanor usually found only among the idle rich.
By 3 in the afternoon, I was fading fast. Normally, I don’t fade fast till about 4.
“You should go home,” my friend Paul urged.
“But that’s where my children are,” I reminded him.
“They’ll take care of you,” he said.
“Even when I’m healthy, they almost kill me,” I said.
“Stop by the ATM,” Paul says. “Take them cash.”
Sensible advice. But in my experience, home is no place for a sick person, even with bribes at hand. Medical care there is spotty. You order whiskey neat, and they bring you tea with honey.
You ask for something to read, and they bring you People. I’m fading like the December sun, and they’re bringing me magazines with Johnny Depp on the cover.
“Does he have the flu?” the little girl asks as her mother feels my forehead.
“I think I’m feeling better,” I sputter.
“What’d he say?”
“He said, ‘The Dodgers need more batters,’ ” explains the boy.
“You’re right, Daddy,” says the little girl, patting my foot.
Communication with this tribal council, always strained, is almost nonexistent. It’s not their fault. I forget, in my fevered state, even the simplest expressions.
“Where’s the thermometer?” my wife says.
“You’re doing a fever test?” I ask.
“Yeah, we’ll do a fever test,” she says with a laugh.
The fever test comes out positive: 102, which is about as high as I’ve ever scored on a test. For the moment, everyone looks pleased.
“It could be higher,” the boy says.
“I didn’t even study,” I remind him.
“102 is high,” my wife says worriedly.
It’s very high, especially for someone with a normal body temperature of 56 degrees. Irish blood flows through my veins, cool as Galway Bay. A fever of 102 is almost twice my normal temperature. By the second day, they’re feeding me antibiotics big as penny loafers.
“We’d better leave him alone,” urges the little girl.
“Who?” the boy says.
“Dad,” she tells him.
“Let’s go,” he says. “We’ll make him a milkshake.”
And so they do, leaving just me and the dog, the only cold remedy that actually works -- a dog. No waiting room. No co-payments.
He’s just a dog, warm as laundry fresh from the dryer. He warms my feet, then moves up the bed into my lower back -- all the stuff they don’t teach in medical school but should.
“You’re a good doctor,” I tell the little dog.
He nudges my chest, then begins to eat the People magazine. Doesn’t gag once. Even on the Michael Jackson coverage.
“No, I mean it, you’re very good,” I tell him.
Hello, doctor. Good night, nurse. Prepare for a long winter.
*
Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.
