There I was, fishing, touring, and otherwise severely enjoying life on the bayou, and it came from whoknowswhere with the latest cool snap.
“It” is a nasty virus-type germ that blew down here on a Northern breeze and settled somewhere between our nostrils and the back of our heads. Three of my sons are sick with it. After taking the two youngest to the doctor yesterday and dosing them up with meds last night, I am now fighting to keep my bleary eyes from glazing over.
Just when I’ve convinced myself to go back to bed and rest, the phone rings, “Hi. Did I catch you at a bad time? I was just calling to see if you are still coming to speak to the volunteers tonight?”
“Tonight?” Oh, how can I not do it? My uvula is hanging so far down in the back of my throat, it gags me each time I swallow (note to self: don’t swallow). I hate backing out on a commitment, especially one where I get to talk and talk about the wetlands and our way of life. I hate even more that I am feeling so poorly, that I had forgotten about this speaking engagement—never even looked at my calendar today.
“I am so sorry. I have sick kids and now I’m fighting it. My sitter is sick, too. I hate to do this, but I just can’t make it.”
And the only thing I could do was sit here and type this before I go lie down as some sort of absolution that I’m not a total sloth when I’m sick. Not only that, typing this has made me actually look at my calendar and realize I am going to miss a boat trip out to Timbalier Island tomorrow, which I have been waiting to go on for several months with my new photographer friend, Quinta. Darn those north winds. How dare they blow those horrid germs down here?
Delirious now, I am going to bed—putting all of you out of my misery.