pulling the fool card

written much earlier | just cleaning out the drafts drawer

I realized tonight that I pulled the fool card. Actually the whole week was really ridiculous but I'm only going to throw out the stupidity of the last two days:

I, with a crap cold that I think is well managed by over the counter meds, plug along and drive to Chicago for my niece's graduation. I'm actually very excited to go -- this young woman has been resolute in her commitment to music, confident, and I couldn't be more proud of her. I drive to Chicago listening to my book the whole way -- all good things ahead!

There are 700 in her class. I don't even think of this until my cold medicine starts to wain. My lung-tinged cough begins to erupt and I swaddle, stifle, smother my cough with the best practice method of my inner elbow. At 516 I have to move -- I walk up the stadium stairs to stretch my legs and give my lungs full throttle to release the torrent I've been holding back. I return at 678. I'm there for the end of the Vs (which would have been much longer where I'm from), the few Ws and surprisingly longer list of Zs than I would have guessed.

We are driving home and I'm wilting in the car. My brother, niece, nephew -- that's it, but I'm not a participant any longer. I'm suddenly exhausted, coughing like a hag on the street corner of Les Miserables and wanting only to cloth myself in warm, snuggly pjs, which I haven't packed because it was super hot when I was leaving. So I beg and borrow for warm pajamas, suck down Nyquil and have a really awful, cold sweat that drenches even sweatpant sweatshirt material pjs. Awful. I wake up and think I must have slept until one in the afternoon -- the room is bright but I feel absolutely limp, as if I had been through a ring of bars and a hard night of drinking instead of the straight up respectable graduation that I actually attended. I finally pull soggy self from bed and head to the bathroom opposite my room. Once the door is shut I feel clammy, like I may throw up, so I lower myself to the cold tile floor and let my body cool itself against it. It feels soothing and good, but I know this is not necessarily a good thing, so after a few minutes of cold tile indulgence I push up, rinse my mouth for no other reason than a reflex from watching way too many movies and inch back to the bed -- relieved that it isn't 1 p.m. but merely somewhere shy of 9 a.m. I will myself back to sleep and sleep harder than I could have ever imagined. My sleep is sweaty, feeling feverish but cold at the same time, and then the phone rings. I pretend for awhile that it isn't my phone, but then realize it actually is. I look - it's my brother. I'm a total asshole if I don't answer because here I am sleeping away at his house and for all I know I'm keeping his wife or family hostage from whatever they need to do because weird Aunt . . . . came from Michigan with a horrible (most likely contagious) illness and now has rooted herself into the guest room. I answer the phone. I truly feel awful so I don't really weigh that my brother may potentially leave work to take me to a doctor's appointment. "Huh? Okay," I murmur. Words to allow me back across the bridge to sleep. Next thing I know my brother is sitting at the foot of the GUEST bed -- this word is capitalized for future reference. He actually did make a doctor's appointment and WE have to be there in 15 minutes.

My pajamas (or I should more accurately say my nephew's sweatpants and my niece's sweatshirt) are drenched. My brother looks at me as I try to sort out the action plan I need to put into place to move from the sweaty mess of the bed to the bathroom and ultimately to a car to the doctor's office. It's seems unfathomable and we both seem a bit discouraged. He leaves the room telling me I can just go as I am. No way. I feel like shit but I am not showing up at a doctor's office looking like a homeless person -- I drew a line.