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The Cold: Day Four

The Cold: Day Four


He rose at 6:30 AM having had a mostly restful night. He breathed a little easier. Although his cough persisted, it had finally become productive signaling a turn in his body’s battle against the infection. He knew that he was on the denouement and that eventually he would win the war.


During his sleep, he dreamed of standing in a field while a gentle breeze caressed his face, but he could not drink in the wind and he awoke to fits of coughing only to roll over and try again.


In the morning, he rose and made his first cup of the magic elixir that would rouse him. He did this not with conscious thought but out of muscle memory. Two cups in, he began to waken and went into the bathroom for his daily ablutions.


Cleansed and now conscious, he sat at his computer considering each of the things he had failed to accomplish in the days before, but felt paralyzed to move forward. In a very short time, he would begin the work that provided his daily bread and he wondered . . . Can I do this today? Can I not?


He decided to forego any artificial aid to deal with his infection. He needed to be sharp in mind to perform the tasks that needed doing. But how does one stay sharp in mind when the razor of his brain is dulled by the symptoms of plague? Which is worse - ignorant bliss or thoughtful misery?


Nonetheless, he made it through his day.


He called it an early night and succumbed to the seduction of “the nighttime, sniffling, sneezing, aching, coughing, stuffy-head, fever, so you can rest medicine." His last thought of the evening: Tomorrow is another day.


#plague

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