Sorry about last week, folks. I was sick.
Have you ever felt so sick you thought you were going to die and were afraid you wouldn't?
I'm an eternal optimist, so even if I feel poorly, I figure that feeling will wear off in a day or two. I was certain to shake these sweats and chills because my sister Barbara was coming to Dodge with a friend from Springfield, and we planned to play. I couldn't be sick when Barbara was here; that's against sister rules.
But I was. So sick, in fact, my brain stopped functioning, and I never thought about seeking a doctor's help. I sat in my recliner, glowed, dried up and got sticky. Over and over and over. And over. At one time a glowing rivulet slipped off my head and raced another down my cheek. That second one had come off my eyelid. My eyelid. I kind of liked the feeling of water running off my head but when I said something aloud, people thought I was delirious.
You know a person looks bad when the one person who always, ALWAYS says she looks good, no matter what, looks at her and says "You look like crap."
And now I know how crap feels.
Turns out I had a UTI. I'm spelling that out because a lot of people get squeamish when somebody says urinary tract infection.
Dr. Birkett gave me some kind of 'cillen, promising to change it if lab work showed the U would be better fought with something else. He chose wisely, though the stuff didn't kick it for several days. And all the while I rotated through the chilling, glowing, sticking routine. I've got towels all over my chair so I wouldn't ruin the feels-like-leather stuff on it.
Thank God my illness coincided with Hallmark channel's Christmas in July celebration. I must have seen 15 different Christmas shows, even one new one with Harry Connick Jr. Or maybe I saw only commercials and think I saw the whole show. I've no idea, really.
Once I started to feel better, it seemed like the house was way too warm, so, of course, I worried about getting sick again. I had the air set at 71 degrees and it seemed to stay a solid 77. So I called some heating people, who came that very day.
As I let Josh Smith in my front door, I warned him he could not say anything snide about how messy my house was. He just looked around, grinned and assured me he'd seen lots worse.
His partner found two bad places in that outside box that belongs to the air conditioning unit. They fixed it and left, adding that it could take several hours before the humidity and warmth had been sucked out of the house.
By this time I was feeling well enough for a ride in the van to get cool, but I couldn't even do that. The air conditioner in the van is hissing, losing freon with every breath. No cool there.
Bad week, that.
So long friends, until the next time when we're together.
Sandy Mickelson, former lifestyle editor of The Messenger, may be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.