With the holiday hangover complete and life returning to something close to normal it’s back to the blog.
|Being sick means you're allowed to grow a|
I trust Christmas, New Year’s Eve and the hours in and around provided you and yours with loads ‘o fun.
At Chateau Blackwell we’ve been in the midst of an ongoing medical experiment, or contest, depending on how you look at it. The idea is for my wife, my son and I to see how many times we can alternate getting one another sick.
This game commenced sometime back in October with Master Blackwell bringing a cold home from that Petri dish the world calls day care. So he got his cold, which was then reduced to a cough, which then returned to a cold, which then returned to a cough, which then returned to me.
My version of this ‘cold’ became bronchitis, which got better as the temperatures dropped and Christmas approached. And while I got well, the boy continued to get sick and better, with fevers and occasional trips to the doctor to break up the monotony. Throughout it all, Mrs. Blackwell stayed healthy and happy as a horse at a sugar cube buffet.
As Master Blackwell and I played tag with viruses and bacteria it was something of a miracle that Mrs. Blackwell stayed healthy.
But, as the holidays drew nearer, ominous signs arose portending of what was to come for my wife.
First there was just a little cold before Christmas. Nothing too serious of course and we had my eye infection to distract us in the meantime. (Yes, an eye infection. My left eye was swollen and the white was turned cherry red like I’d been crying for about a week, while my right eye looked slightly better in that it appeared to have been slapped just once but hard. All this and we were told it wasn’t pink eye.)
Apologies for the digression.
|"I told you son, the doctor said it's not pink eye." |
(That said, my left eye totally looks like
I've got pink eye.)
Thanks to work commitments, I was left alone for the six days sandwiching New Year’s Eve while Mrs. Blackwell and the boy returned to her parent’s house 440 miles south. (More on that six-day return to bachelordom in an upcoming post.)
Shortly before she left, Mrs. Blackwell was sporting a full-on cold. Throughout her visit she kept the cold and by the time she returned on Jan. 3, she had a room-rattling, silence-shattering boom of a hack.
As the Kleenex mounted, it became apparent that she was getting it far worse than either Junior or I had. And, for good measure, she too got an eye infection.
Meanwhile I’ve been fine and Junior has been using his healthy respiratory track to begin babbling a storm of loud baby talk.
But, as her family's health has improved, Mrs. Blackwell was hit with among the worst of all ailments: her back gave out on her.
Naturally we went to the doctor and naturally he didn’t have a clue what caused it, so naturally he just prescribed narcotics and sent us on our way.
That was last Saturday. Since then, Mrs. Blackwell has been in a steady state of improvement, though her cough still sounds like she’s been smoking since Lucky Strikes were advertised on television.
As for me and the boy, the game of tag is off – for now – because mom’s it.