Rx: LA NIGHTINGALE SINGS

 

One glance in the mirror and I see my Santa Claus nose. It is big and red. It is sore and leaking onto my lips. Used Kleenex sops and drops on the floor. My chest hurts. When I swallow, it feels like a rock is trying to force its way down my throat. I dot a told, a really bad one. My chills dilute my 102 fever. Millie brings me hot tea and honey. She has a snack table close to my bed and has added a trash can for the sloppy, untouchable Kleenexes. On the table are my over-the-counter medications, Tylenol, Alka-Seltzer +, Day Quil, Robotussin, a new box of Kleenex ready for when the last one empties. A pitcher of tap water and a cup are reachable. At least twice a day Millie rubs my back, washes my face. She wears no face mask and doesn’t ask me to do it either. I am aware that without her loving care, I’d probably die in a day or two.

 

This is now my third day of misery. At last Millie has convinced me I need a doctor. I call my internist and am told by his PA that Dr. Brigham doesn’t make house calls and  suggests I sign myself into Mt. Oland. He will see me on his morning rounds. Mentally I tell the PA to tell him to go ef himself.

 

Harry, my long time friend and neighbor, visits but stays in the hall, out of range of my sneezing germs. He talks. I try to listen . ‘Don’t worry, Bill. It takes seven whole days for a cold to leave and if it doesn’t, believe me, it will be gone in a week.’ He thinks that is funny but I see no humor in it and don’t bother to even grunt.

 

Somehow I get thru day four, feeling no worse nor better. Day five I am sweating a river of anguish. Millie brings me clean pajamas four times between my morning honey tea and the chicken broth she has made in a giant pot never taken out of its gift box until now. I can see her strength waning. I offer to move downstairs on the sofa. She declares that a ridiculous idea, kisses the top of my head and pulls her small dressing table chair closer to me, just so I won’t be lonely. She also believes she will take my mind off my coughing, sweating and complaining. It sort of does. I promise her that when I get well, I will make such passionate love to her, she will live forever with a big smile on her beautiful face.

 

Harry is wrong. The seven days are over and I am still sick. By day ten I am able to lift my head without it falling off my shoulders and slowly get out of bed, eat some solid food and give Millie a rest.

 

We sit side by side on the sofa. I put my arm around her, feel her softness. She puts her eye lids on my forehead and tells me my temperature is normal. She is a walking, talking thermometer. I snuggle a few inches closer to my darling. Her body is warm and tender... but I’m not yet ready to keep my promise.

 

I feel a little quiver in her body, hope I am the cause. No, a sort of coughing comes from her throat. A small glass of cold orange juice may help her. Trying to act normally, I get up and get the juice, put it on a small plate and offer it as if I were Rhett Butler working on Scarlett.
The tickle turns into a deeper cough. We both fear the worst. We are wrong. Millie’s touch of a cold disappears in one day. Could the two Tylenols have been effective with her and useless for me?

 

I am feeling super great, delighted that my wife didn’t catch my bitchy flu. We watch an old movie and go upstairs together.

 

I keep my promise and we smile broadly as we fall asleep in each others arms.