Hypochondria, Handkerchiefs and Other Novel Adventures

"Being sick feels like you're wearing someone else's glasses." 

~Megan Boyle~

I have been down and out with the flu, influenza, or what I would not-so-lovingly call the plague.  After a week of anti-biotics, Tamiflu and a host of over the counter meds to help with the symptoms, I am still running a low-grade fever, coughing  and so congested it's not only hard to breathe, but open my jaw.  In fact, I contemplated the entire concept of lock-jaw today.  I can honestly say I didn't know much about it and found the following: 

In unvaccinated individuals, tetanus is contracted through a cut or deep wound which becomes contaminated with the organism. Tetanus has also been associated with clean wounds, surgical procedures, insect bites, dental infections, and intravenous drug use. It is not transmitted from person to person.  A common first sign of tetanus is muscular stiffness in the jaw (lockjaw), followed by stiffness of the neck, difficulty in swallowing, rigidity of abdominal muscles, spasms, sweating and fever.  The incubation period is usually eight days but may range from three days to three weeks. Shorter incubation periods are associated with more heavily contaminated wounds.  

Reassuring in the fact I can't think of a "recent" wound that would allow this and I'm good on the rest - no surgeries, bites, dental work and DEFINITELY no drugs. 

With this "plague," I have felt a bit like Typhoid Mary at work.   Yes.  I am going to work despite the fact I am still sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching and can't breathe.   I missed almost two weeks between being out of town training and last week when this evil organism took over my body.  I don't know of anyone at work that has this (yet), but the kids and hubby are getting a little ticked at me.  Something about "not feeling good" and sniffling, sneezing, coughing... I'm sure you get the picture. 

In fact, youngest came in earlier tonight to ask about Kleenex.  She needed some.  I don't have any --- perse. I have what's left of three boxes of Puffs Plus, the greatest tissue for severely congested people ever made.  (Lotion is such a blessing and helps with the chafing.) 

Strangely enough, most people call tissues "Kleenex" and with good cause.  It's the name brand that first became associated with the disposable tissues in the 1920's.  By the 30's Kleenex was being marketed with the slogan “Don’t Carry a Cold in Your Pocket." Its use as a disposable handkerchief replacement became predominant.

I'm not a fan of the handkerchief.  In fact, I have an almost "Sheldon Cooper Aversion" to them.  There's something about its reusability that rather disgusts me.  I don't care if they are "green" or "coming back into style."  I have a hard time with the concept of, despite being washed and theoretically clean, carrying around a piece of cloth that has been used to absorb some of the grossest bodily fluids to emit from a human is somehow wrong. 

There is also the legitimate problem of absorbency.  

I have personally gone through TWO large boxes of Puffs and an entire "mega" roll of Charmin Extra Soft bath tissue during this illness. There are not enough handkerchiefs to keep my nose dry in this city.  

And sanitation... 

The amount of laundry it would entail is insane and frankly, where does one store a used 'kerchief? I don't wanna carry my own snot around in my purse.  Quite the conundrum, eh?
So typically, I avoid the problem completely by carrying around a wad of tissue and a plastic zip-lock bag in case I can't get to a trash can to dispose of the bacteria-laden paper product. 

During this viral attack on my persona, I have also found out a few things about being sick. 

1) The higher the fever, the less I give a crap about anything or anyone.  Pretty much my family could be starving or walking around naked and my only thought is, "so?" Sad, I think, when I get too far into myself to care for others.

2) Breathing is not to be taken for granted and apparently I do.  I woke up in the middle of the night the other night and I couldn't breathe.  I'm not sure what happened, but I was gasping for air like a fish plucked from the water and dropped into the boat.  It passed, but I realized at that moment oxygen is a beautiful thing. 

3) I've always got to be doing something and NOT doing anything other than laying in bed is torture. 

With that said, it's a conundrum wrapped in paradox. 
There is no energy to do anything so I torture myself by thinking of all the things I need to be doing and then really not caring about it so much as I try to take a few deep breaths.   
Lather, rinse and repeat. 

Finally, I should be working on the novel.  I don't have the energy so I am blogging. It's easier on the mind, clouded by good drugs.  I haven't written diddly-squat in  a couple of weeks, the plot line is still messed up and I am cranky about it.  I'm not sure how yet to fix it and that too is bothering me.  

Scrivener looks promising, but at this point, I'm not sure if it's helping or hurting the process.  I actually have used it for a few things, but I'm thinking at this point breaking out index cards and a notebook might be better. I don't know.  For me this feels like one of those things that's supposed to make writing easier and because of all the bells and whistles makes it harder.  I don't know if others have this issue.  I should go on the forums and ask, but again... rule 1 comes into play.  I haven't really cared THAT much to do so.  

I am hoping to get the ball rolling again by this weekend.  I want to feel productive, aside from doing laundry, and get the words back down on the page.  Maybe, just maybe, this fever will FINALLY break and I'll get back to caring about something. 

For now though, my only concern is sleep and sleeping a few hours without having to blow my nose 437 times.  Maybe tonight is the night. 

The First Fifty

"The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter - it's the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning." 

~Mark Twain, letter to George Bainton, 1888

I am a writer.

I wrote my first story when I was seven years old.  It was a page long and not well written, but I knew then the power of the pencil and Big Chief tablet.  My father, the story-teller, seemed to like it and he tucked it away saved it for a rainy day.

When I was twelve, I began forming the idea for a story that was much longer and more detailed, but I didn't have the life experience to emotionally connect to the characters. So the characters went on a vacation to Europe for a few years.

I tried to write the story again in high school, but I got "busy" with friends, social activities and writing of another form - journalism. I learned the craft of the who, what, where, when, why and how.  Pieces of craft started coming together and I discovered what I thought I knew, I didn't really know. So I practiced writing for the school newspaper, song lyrics, poetry and other things that would expand not only my mind, but my style.

After high school came college and then "life."  It's trite, but life gets in the way of our plans. So, the Pulitzer in journalism, which I was sure I was going to win, went by the wayside and in its place came a husband, two beautiful children, a few dogs and an assortment of adventures that adulthood brings.

My characters though were growing tired of Europe. However, I wasn't ready to bring them home, so I created a new bunch of characters and tried writing a story in a genre that was more mainstream and "accepted."  I use the word accepted because at this point, I had my own demons to battle and I wanted to write a story my family would "approve" of.  It was a hard story to write. There was no emotional connection to the characters and frankly, the story fizzled in a big way. It's still two-thirds done sitting in the attic collecting dust.

Because of more life changes and other events, I quit writing. I stopped journaling, stopped doodling poetry, and I stopped everything including reading. I went through a personal winter and the soils of my soul needed some time to just lay fallow for a while.  Several seasons later, seeds were planted when I started reading again.

A writer must read.  We get inspiration from what others have written.  You see, a writer is zipping along a good book and then BAM! A word, a turn of phrase, or something else catches our eye and the muse within plants a seed. Further reading waters and nurtures the seedling and before you know it, you have a field of ideas and you just have to harvest them.

After a long and barren winter, I would have to thank too many writers to list that inspired me to pick up the pen and write again. But gone was the notion I had to write to please anyone, but myself, my worst critic. 

My characters rejoiced. They finally came home from their long hiatus and I discovered something about them. They were well-rounded and flushed out from their adventures and living life abroad. They had matured and become more than I had ever dreamed of. Their story isn't torture to write, it's in a genre I love and most importantly, I finally found my "voice."

The first fifty pages are done and some re-writes have already been completed. After all, being a writer doesn't mean that you slop down some words on paper and submit them. You take what you have written, rewrite them until they are crisp and then rewrite them until they are razor sharp. As a friend told me once, "the writing is easy, the re-writing is a bitch."

I wanted to share this achivement today because I didn't know if this day would come. But in being true to myself, it has. I look forward to what the next pages have to offer, what my characters are going to do next and when I get to write the final words that will close out this novel.

Fifty down - a few hundred to go.

Today I realized...

I AM a writer.