My girl called yesterday to catch up. Snow and a lazy weekend and a new job and school kept us out of touch a few days.
She’s got the swine flu. They say.
Even after a home alone call to 9-1-1 and ambulance ride to the E.R. (because a normally healthy 23-year-old shouldn’t suddenly feel breath shorten to shallow gulps and extremities go numb) docs chose not to test her for the actual piggy bug, or anything else. They called swine flu, strapped on some oxygen, pumped up the fluids and sent her home in four hours. The cost of the H1N1 test runs $300+ and results take several days (here I thought home pregnancy sticks akin to peeing on a $10 bill). Simple math tells me the number of swine flu cases may be inflated at best, lazy at worst. Call the disease of the moment, the media fueled epidemic, the Lifetime TV movie starring Valerie Bertinellii. How many men and woman simply in need of 1000 IU’s of Vitamin D3 or lacking imagination have been diagnosed with sleepy folks syndrome, a.k.a. chronic fatigue?
H1N1 was spun on the post-9/11 terror alert “Wheel O’ Fear” alongside the recession.
I think I may have the swine flu or a variation thereof, the “Pig Out” malady. I’m not unhappy or unfulfilled or sexually frustrated (far from it), just filling my pie hole on a constant basis, like the mighty grizzly storing up for winter or woman in her first trimester (and no). Last nights remedy included dinner of shrimp with roasted eggplant, tomatoes and feta, Australian red licorice and large bowl of corn popped in coconut oil washed down with a magical elixir - very good tequila mixed with very good ginger ale and the juice of half a lime. I call it the “Two Titties Out” because much like the “Creamsicale” - Vanilla Absolut stirred into ginger ale - they go down easy, as do I after a few.
Other symptoms include a bitch cough lingering since late September, the surprise, annoying kind that rattles up dry from nowhere and scares small animals and the occasional sneeze (I love to sneeze, it’s like cleaning out my brain, leaving it damp and crisp and smelling of lemons).
Sickness happens. Sometimes cells display uncontrolled growth, invasion or metastasis, for no reason other than they do. Sometimes the chemicals in gray matter don’t fire as they should. Others determine, “You have this, you are that.” They name it, you own it.
Growing up, in grade school, I didn’t know any kid with ADD or ADHA. They had “ants in the pants.” Now society insists on behavior veering left or right as something out of order.
1. lack of order or regular arrangement
2. an irregularity
3. breach of order; disorderly conduct; public disturbance
A soul killing word for a fresh generation of artists and dreamers and dirt diggers and scientists. I still have ants in my pants, good ants. I’m happily irregular.