By Minx McCloud, Special Writer
When I was young, I always heard the same old refrain from “grownups”: “If they can put a man on the moon, why can’t they find a cure for the common cold?”
To me, this made a lot of sense. If astronauts could make such giant strides, why on earth was I lying in bed with tissues stuck up my nose to stop it from running, and a sore throat that made it painful to swallow anything but my mother’s chicken soup?
My mother was Lebanese, so her soup was never referred to as “Jewish penicillin,” but it did soothe my throat, and probably helped cure my cold.
Hey, maybe there’s some sort of a lesson there, huh? All these Mid-Eastern nations that are fighting with each other may have soup in common. Maybe they should sit down over a pot of chicken soup and realize that they are not so different after all. Add in some hummus, falafel and tabouli, and you might just find world peace.
On the other hand, I may just be delirious, because today I am, once again, suffering from a horrendous cold. No, it’s not the flu; if it were, I might get some sympathy from my husband. The flu would get me a doctor’s appointment, and Jim might even take off from work to take care of me.
But it’s “only” a cold, and he leaves me with a cautious kiss on my hot forehead and a half-hearted reprieve. “If you can’t cook dinner tonight, I’ll understand,” he says, patting my hand. “But if you do cook, wash your hands.”
”Ah, thank you, kind master,” I think to myself, and shuffle off to locate the harem pants I wore once wore to a college costume party (Harem pants are huge, so they still fit after 35 years. Yeah, they fit, but they look like panty hose, tight panty hose. I put my pajamas back on).
Oh, please don’t feel sorry for Jim because I am not cooking. He will be dining on pizza, a gyro, a fast food burger, or something else he can wave in my face while I sit there nauseated. In fact, the only good thing about this cold is that I am eating a bare minimum, which may give me a good weigh-in at Weight Watchers this week. I’m just not hungry.
We didn’t even go out for our regular Saturday night dinner. Anything I managed to eat tasted like copper pennies for some odd reason. As Jim made the rounds of the area takeout places Friday, Saturday and Sunday, I lay there in abject pity, forcing down oatmeal, Raisin Bran, skim milk, soup and Jell-o, mostly so I wouldn’t sink into a diabetic stupor. Strangely, even the odor of Jim’s food left a metallic taste in my mouth, so I stayed in bed while he ate. It was a miserable weekend.
Actually, there was something enjoyable about having a cold when I was a kid, even though I was coughing, headachy and miserable. I had a little bell that had been my grandmother’s, and every time I needed something, I rang it and my mom or dad came running. Soup, ice cream, turn on the TV, turn off the TV, bring me the head of Alfredo Garcia .. . anything I wanted was mine for the asking. (“Daddy, will you buy me a pony?” “Yes sweetie, let me just go out and build a stable. Back in a trice.”)
Out came the vaporizer, liberally loaded with Vicks VapoRub, which, interestingly, now has instructions not to put it in the vaporizer (or near anything electric). Apparently it can ignite or explode or something. I know this because I have a jar in front of me as I write this.
My mom did not rub it on my chest and throat as the directions instructed. It was supposed to be inhaled, she reasoned, therefore, it went directly under my nose and on my chin, and then for the next 15 minutes, I was breathing more deeply than a yoga instructor. It stung like heck.
And even though a liberal amount was put in the cup at the opening to the vaporizer, our house never once caught on fire. (Actually, my mother set the house on fire when I was 5, but that’s another column.)
So of course, I’m sitting here now, with my trusty Vicks, but no vaporizer. I’m my own boss, so no more stinging. I am content now to rub it on my throat and chest as directed. The menthol mixture also contains Eucalyptus and camphor, so I smell like a Koala bear that has been mothproofed.
I have also decided to stay in my pajamas all day. They are wrinkled from too much sleep, and are a bit gamy because I was too sick to shower this morning. Once again, there are tissues stuffed up both nostrils, so I don’t drip germs all over the place. A frantic search for tissues containing aloe yielded nothing, so I don’t want to keep wiping my nose. I would rather not look like a W.C. Fields on a binge.
The fact that Jim is not here to see this might possibly save our marriage for another few years.
We now know that there is no “common cold.” There are so many strains that it can probably never be “cured.” Supposedly, once you get a certain strain, you never get it again, but with so many people moving here from other cultures, bringing their own regional colds, I figure I’ll be getting sick like this for the next 20 years.
I must say though, that during this illness, the difference between a good wife and a vindictive wife is clear.
A good wife washes her hands frequently, sprays with Lysol if she sneezes or coughs, and otherwise protects her husband from catching her cold. A vindictive wife discards all personal hygiene, touches every single item her husband might touch, and martyrs herself by cooking dinner, even though her butt is dragging on the linoleum .. . just so he will suffer as she has.
I am proud to say that I have managed to be a “good wife.”
However, Jim just phoned and said he is ordering Chinese ribs and lo mein tonight, so I’m wavering.
Minx McCloud is a freelance writer who writes about life in New Jersey. She can be reached at [email protected].
