Mr. Flu and Me: A Love Story

For much of the past week I’ve been entertaining a ‘flu virus that finally brought me to my knees, or at least to my bed, by Sunday afternoon. I’ve felt it lurking for maybe three weeks now. One morning my throat felt like it had been scrubbed with sea salt by a spiny and particularly enthusiastic mollusk. Next, my nose flooded with a tide that swooshed up into my sinuses and stayed there. Several mornings, I struggled to climb out of waves of sleep, only to feel myself amphibian, all sounds muffled by the swaying sea in which I now lived.

Then I heard the doorbell ring.

For a while, I managed to ignore the flu that commenced hammering on my front door. I ingested pungent doses of oil of oregano, fell into bed some nights by seven o’clock. But my visitor would not go away. He knocked and called and pounded. He demanded to be let in. So, with as much grace as I could muster between bouts of sneezing punctuated by breathtaking coughing fits, I opened the door and welcomed my visitor in.

There’s a protocol to entertaining an illness. He (or she!) wants to be welcomed with open arms; honored as a distinguished guest, an angel in a Kleenex tuxedo. He likes to be snuggled in a comfortable armchair, offered cups of mint tea and the best chocolate beignets. And why not? Like any good guest, he comes bearing gifts. The timing of his visit is impeccable.

I don’t get sick often, but when I do, I’ve generally arrived at a new cliff-edge in my own creative evolution and am trying not to peer down at the abyss just beyond my feet. For a while before illness knocks on my door, I’m Very, Very Busy. I plunge into work with great efficiency and enthusiasm, Getting Things Done, sometimes months ahead of schedule; answer emails on the very day that they land in my Inbox; get my tax information organized with such efficiency that my accountant phones to thank me for making her life easy during her busiest season.

All the while, out of the corner of my eye, I warily watch the crumbling cliff-edge beside me, smell the sour whiff of guano lining its plunging sides, and hear the sea smashing against the rocks a thousand feet below.

Beyond the warm amber light cast by my lovely house, beyond the fringes of my friendly garden, lies the Vast Unknown. It’s dark out there; the sea unfathomable, un-crossable except by putting my life on the line. Scowling bushes hide who-knows-what dangers; towering fir trees lean over the cliff’s edge, writhe in a fierce wind. I’m supposed to leave my comfortable home and cross this unknown sea?

No thanks, I say. I’m busy!

So, I scurry back from the edge, heart pounding, neck slick with sweat, nose running — pretending a nonchalance I don’t feel. Back to the safety of my house, my front door, my lovely living room.

And then, there’s that knocking.

Ah yes, Mr. Flu, come on in. I’m sorry I kept you waiting. A conversation, you say?

That’s where we begin. Mr. Flu and I lie in my bed with a growing mound of Kleenex on the floor beside us, a big box of tissues clutched to my chest, cocooned in a warm wool quilt, hot packs tucked against my feet. Hello, I say, to Me, Myself and I. Who wants to tell me how they feel about this sea we’re invited to explore? Where is the boat of my heart? The raft of my belly? My timid self wonders: are there sharks out there? Will they eat me? My practical self demands a plan, ropes and crampons, equipment to rappel down the cliff to the sea.

We talk and talk. Not all at once. I stop to sleep, and eat, and blow my nose, and do other things too tedious to mention. But we talk. My body wants time to rest and play and goof off; to not look at a clock for a very long time, and as for work — phhhtt!.

The boat of my heart is already on the sea, delighted to be launched on this new adventure. There’s space and freedom here, it tells me, friendly waves carrying us to new shores. Wondrous places to explore; lovely people to meet. An interesting new life, with stars to light the way, the wide arms of an encircling horizon to welcome and shelter us. Hooray, it says! Come on in!

My belly asks, wistfully: Who will go with me? Are the natives friendly on the other side? Who will I be when we get there? Will I recognize myself?

My legs say: I’m not going if I have to leave my friends behind! My head is too stuffed to say much of anything, which is unusual because it’s the real extrovert in the family.

Many conversations later, I begin to feel less soggy, less wobbly. Mr. Flu leaves to get a change of clothes and bring me soup. I walk to the cliff edge in my pyjamas in the clear light of day and admire the muscular ripple of shining pewter waves. Breathe, through my snuffly nose, the briny, bracing tang of ocean air.

An eagle calls from overhead: Do I want a ride to the beach below?

Soon, I say. Not quite yet, but soon.