Normally I’d have posted on this blog this morning. That was the plan but, alas, I brought something back from England that couldn’t be ignored: a raging summer cold. You know the drill: runny nose, stuffy sinuses, coughing, and a throat that feels as if I gargled barbed wire.
It’s not Covid; I’ve had that and it’s worse–high fever, inability to focus, shortness of breath, loss of smell and taste, gastro issues–but colds are no fun either. That said, I had forgotten how frustrating a cold can be. I’ve been retired for nearly a decade and hadn’t had a cold since the day I left.
Those who have worked in schools, social agencies, restaurants, and other public places can attest that catching colds is an occupational hazard. Schools are little incubators for the more than 200 viruses that can cause the “so-called common” cold. In an ideal world, everybody covers their mouth when they cough or sneeze, wash their hands frequently, clean surfaces they’ve touched, and stay home when they are sick and contagious.
Alas, we don’t live in an ideal world. When you’re a good student, you fear falling behind so you go to school sick. Whether or not we like to hear it, schools are babysitters for K-12 students. Parents often shuffle sick kids off to school because they can’t afford to take a day off work. But teachers can be just as bad. I was one of them. Some former high school students of mine probably have nightmares about days in which my voice was shot from illness. I came to work anyhow and made you folks write until your arms were failing off! Or the days in which I salvaged my voice by bringing a giant thermos of coffee to work. By the last period I was so high of caffeine that I was firing out information and questions like a wild man with a Gatling gun.
I wonder if my immunity systems are off-line from not having had a cold for so long. I had forgotten how fast one regular-sized nose could burn through a box of tissues and consuming cough drops as if they were Oreos. Not to mention beating a path to the bathroom to discharge all the fluids I’ve drunk.
I had also forgotten that every school year, the worst cold I got was just before summer vacation. It was as if I had my defenses on high alert and just as I corrected final exams and completed reading student papers, I sighed, let down my defenses, and Mr. Virus climbed over the walls and kicked my butt. He twirled his thin mustache, sprinkled me with ten thousand germs, and screamed, “Aha!” in his most dastardly voice. Summer colds are just one notch down from being tied to a railroad track as a rushing train speeds around the bend. Sometimes I felt so lousy I would have preferred that my rescuing superhero (Superman? Underdog? Nyquil?) stayed home so my misery could end sooner.
In the few years I didn’t get an end-of-the-school-year cold, other things happened that prevented me going into full Slug Mode until September. One year, spring came early and I got in a lot of tennis after school and on weekends. That was the year I had my only bout of tennis elbow and my right arm was put in a sling. Another year I tore my left rotator cuff and put that arm in a sling for several months. The sling also had a red ball attached to it to squeeze for exercise. I spent several months living in abject fear that a friendly Golden Retriever would happen upon me and demand a game of fetch by sinking his teeth into the ball.
The worst of all was a weekend before Bay Path commencement. It was a gorgeous Saturday morning and I went for a run on the ¾ mile dirt track at Smith College. I was light on my feet after the first lap and decided to put on the afterburners for lap two. That was the plan, except I was paying attention to the music in my Walkman player, not where I was going. As I gained speed, I smacked my left knee into the gate stanchion post I was supposed squeeze past. Down I went like shot, thereby driving bits of stone into my right arm and both knees. The emergency room doctor declared me a “bloody mess” as he picked gravel out of three of my four limbs. I attended commencement on crutches with five stiches in my knee and an oozing bandage over it. A further indignity of being ushed into the tent before anyone else entered. And, yes, it could be worse. It was as awful that weekend as it was warm and sunny the previous one. How awful you ask? Pelting icy rain that turned to snow!
By rights I shouldn’t complain about my silly cold. But I will!
Rob Weir