Brought To You By Ibuprofen—Or My Hard Luck Hand
This time last week I was doing 40 pounds on chest weight in Bodypump and practicing the Law of Attraction while finishing up my short story collection. Today I managed a shower and a failed attempt to walk in Harris Teeter.
I could not do it.
Bess and I got back in the car and came home. I unlocked the door and she kicked it open for me. The egg I fried to make a sandwich sits in the pan. It's gross looking, the egg. Not fluffy and sunny—I used too much butter and I knew it while I was frying it up. I turned to my old friend, peanut butter. Got a spoonful, put on a PJ Masks show for Bess and here I sit.
Bess drew a picture of me. Accurate.
The flu came for me this week. It took me good. I have a crazy high pain tolerance, so I didn't see anything coming.
Monday morning I knew I was in trouble. There was something alien and sinister in my body and I could not get up. I don't remember texting or calling Mom and Dad or any other logistics but they came and took care of my girls and appeared at my bedside at intervals. I remember Dad, uncharacteristically stern, on the phone saying she needs to get to a hospital. Mom I remember saying damn it and shaking her head. My girls' voices were waves in a seashell—far and perfect.
The next thing I remember was Tuesday noon in a crowded urgent care. I had pulled on a pair of Addie's old jeans and my hair hadn't been washed in three days. I told the sweet 20-something PA my life story when she was going over my vitals.
Things are hard right now, I told her. I have deadlines to meet and there's other stuff. What that sweetie said when she came back in the room and side hugged me is one of those statements my weird writer brain will file away under items of inexplicable impact:
"I'm so sorry to have to tell you this, because I know you've already got a lot going on, but you tested positive for Flu A."
I got a shot, and a free sample of a flu drug. She handed me a mask. I put it on and my flu tears spilled over it the whole way out into the parking lot. I hadn't cried until then—and that's when I could feel the sinister thing inside weaken a bit.
If I was crying, then I was going to live. Crying is one of my superpowers. I used to be ashamed of my tears but thanks to the MFA and a lovely circle of people who get it—who get me, I see my tears as the mark of a warrior.
Anyway, I just needed a good flu cryin' song. It's always Dylan's "Kingsport Town." I've always said if I could just write a story or a poem half as good as this song, I'd be famous. For me it's about the speaker's unwavering love, even when times are tough.
If you got people who hold your hard luck hand, you're lucky enough. I know who's got mine. I will remember it when my luck's not hard.
The winter wind is a blowing strong
My hands have got no gloves
I wish to my soul that I could see
The girl I'm a-thinking of
Don't you remember me babe
I remember you quite well
You caused me to leave old Kingsport Town
With a high sheriff on my trail
High sheriff on my trail, boys
High sheriff on my trail
All because I'm falling for
A curly-headed dark-eyed girl
Who's a-gonna stroke your cold black hair
And sandy colored skin
Who's a-gonna kiss your Memphis lips
When I'm out in the wind
When I'm out in the wind, babe
When I'm out in the wind
Who's a-gonna kiss your Memphis mouth
When I'm out in the wind
Who's a-gonna walk you side by side
And tell you everything's alright
Who's a-gonna sing to you all day long
And not just in the night
Who's a-gonna walk you side by side
Who's a-gonna be your man
Who's a-gonna look you straight in the eye
And hold your bad luck hand
Hold your bad luck hand, babe
Hold your bad luck hand
Who's a-gonna hold your hard luck hand
And who's a-gonna be your man
The winter wind is a blowing strong
My hands have got no gloves
I wish to my soul I could see
The girl I'm a-thinking of.
And I'm part Tennessean. My mouth is technically a Memphis mouth, right? See ya'll when I'm not contagious.
I could not do it.
Bess and I got back in the car and came home. I unlocked the door and she kicked it open for me. The egg I fried to make a sandwich sits in the pan. It's gross looking, the egg. Not fluffy and sunny—I used too much butter and I knew it while I was frying it up. I turned to my old friend, peanut butter. Got a spoonful, put on a PJ Masks show for Bess and here I sit.
Bess drew a picture of me. Accurate.
The flu came for me this week. It took me good. I have a crazy high pain tolerance, so I didn't see anything coming.
Monday morning I knew I was in trouble. There was something alien and sinister in my body and I could not get up. I don't remember texting or calling Mom and Dad or any other logistics but they came and took care of my girls and appeared at my bedside at intervals. I remember Dad, uncharacteristically stern, on the phone saying she needs to get to a hospital. Mom I remember saying damn it and shaking her head. My girls' voices were waves in a seashell—far and perfect.
The next thing I remember was Tuesday noon in a crowded urgent care. I had pulled on a pair of Addie's old jeans and my hair hadn't been washed in three days. I told the sweet 20-something PA my life story when she was going over my vitals.
Things are hard right now, I told her. I have deadlines to meet and there's other stuff. What that sweetie said when she came back in the room and side hugged me is one of those statements my weird writer brain will file away under items of inexplicable impact:
"I'm so sorry to have to tell you this, because I know you've already got a lot going on, but you tested positive for Flu A."
I got a shot, and a free sample of a flu drug. She handed me a mask. I put it on and my flu tears spilled over it the whole way out into the parking lot. I hadn't cried until then—and that's when I could feel the sinister thing inside weaken a bit.
If I was crying, then I was going to live. Crying is one of my superpowers. I used to be ashamed of my tears but thanks to the MFA and a lovely circle of people who get it—who get me, I see my tears as the mark of a warrior.
Anyway, I just needed a good flu cryin' song. It's always Dylan's "Kingsport Town." I've always said if I could just write a story or a poem half as good as this song, I'd be famous. For me it's about the speaker's unwavering love, even when times are tough.
If you got people who hold your hard luck hand, you're lucky enough. I know who's got mine. I will remember it when my luck's not hard.
The winter wind is a blowing strong
My hands have got no gloves
I wish to my soul that I could see
The girl I'm a-thinking of
Don't you remember me babe
I remember you quite well
You caused me to leave old Kingsport Town
With a high sheriff on my trail
High sheriff on my trail, boys
High sheriff on my trail
All because I'm falling for
A curly-headed dark-eyed girl
Who's a-gonna stroke your cold black hair
And sandy colored skin
Who's a-gonna kiss your Memphis lips
When I'm out in the wind
When I'm out in the wind, babe
When I'm out in the wind
Who's a-gonna kiss your Memphis mouth
When I'm out in the wind
Who's a-gonna walk you side by side
And tell you everything's alright
Who's a-gonna sing to you all day long
And not just in the night
Who's a-gonna walk you side by side
Who's a-gonna be your man
Who's a-gonna look you straight in the eye
And hold your bad luck hand
Hold your bad luck hand, babe
Hold your bad luck hand
Who's a-gonna hold your hard luck hand
And who's a-gonna be your man
The winter wind is a blowing strong
My hands have got no gloves
I wish to my soul I could see
The girl I'm a-thinking of.
And I'm part Tennessean. My mouth is technically a Memphis mouth, right? See ya'll when I'm not contagious.
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