I can’t put those little Christmas trees away fast enough. Actually, I want to take them out back and burn them.
The Cootie Grinch stole Christmas.
And I know he didn’t just steel it from us. I have friends who faced the same unwanted cooties.
It isn’t the gifts I look forward to at Christmas.
It is the people.
I, we had plans.
We would drive the 500 miles and stay at oour youngest daughter’s house and participate in fal-di-rah. I had friends to see, family to visit and Christmas get together to attend.
Nick was looking forward to playing, “Cincinnati” again. Go to the Bonbonerie for tea and crumpets, hit Findlay Market, walk through Lebanon, you know, bop around.
Alarm bells went off in my head when on Saturday, prior to our arrival on Monday, our daughter claimed she was sick. Going down the chimney, sick.
That caused concern for me. I have no business getting sick right now. I have surgery coming up and yada, yada. And Nick has no business getting sick because he, with his Parkinson’s, has a very difficult time with colds and flu.
Nick and I started taking the Zicam. Hoping. Praying.
Our daughter was a mess. Very nasty cold/flu/respiratory crud. Cough. Hack. Sneeze. Repeat.
I knew we were doomed, but I Zicammed and used anti-everything wipes at every turn.
The day after we arrived, I saw one of my friends. I was well. We had a wonderful time.
And that was all she wrote.
Remember that list of fun things we were going to do? Something called, Plans?
Yes, you make all begin to laugh.
We were unsettled. Our daughter’s house is tiny. We into each other like we are Pinball Wizards.
I was so nice, I patted my daughter on the head, afraid to hug her. A couple of days later, I progress to back rubs and head rubs. Those were my signs of affection.
While trying to be loving and giving care, I was scared to death of getting sick and having the surgery postponed.
After three days, I thought, hey, I think I am going to be in the clear.
Both Nick and I got sick.
And we were torn, again.
We so wanted to join people for the festivities. We have great people in our lives in Ohio. They work hard cooking, cleaning, decorating and making everything special.
And here we were, sick. And more guilt comes down the chimney as we tried to figure out if we should even go. Besides feeling like eggnog, were we going to cootify everybody else?
There wasn’t a good solution. So you choose. And hope for the best, just as we did when we came up knowing that we could catch cooties. The fact is our daughter doesn’t have a spouse to take care of her. You know how awful it is to be sick and not have anyone around to fetch orange juice … or complain to.
We made it to the gatherings, and tried our best to not contaminate anyone and to contribute some sort of cheer and not make wish they hadn’t invited us.
And then we would go back to our daughter’s and collapse. And miss home.
Being sick stinks. Being sick away from home, sucks.
I feel awful that we were not in good form for those we love. It doubled my angst. Letting people down isn’t fun.
Yesterday, still in the middle of this relentless crappola, we drove 500 miles home. Cough, cough. Hack, hack.
I don’t know how this will play out as far as surgery. I hope it goes away. Nick sounds awful. Feels awful.
Not every Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, birthday goes as planned. Cooties like to cause mischief, show their power, and act like asshats.
I am still wanting to break every record, cd or whatever, that has that dastardly song,
“It’s The Most Wonderful Time of TheYear.”
The thought of Christmas gives me the vapors.
I know this feeling will go away. But it is going to take a while. Sort of like the pain of childbirth.
But the good news is … I saw my darling grandchildren and my children and loving, kind family, who graciously didn’t ask s to stay away, or put our heads in Ziplock bags. And the Bingo and As Seen on TV gifts were great. As we brunch and dinner with my family. And my friend, Karen, who I got to see before the cooties, hit, was grand.
So, hot tea in hand, Tylenol Cold and Flu in my brain, Winston, my dear Winston, on the couch, and Nick in bed, from Clover, SC, cough, cough. Hack, hack.