Ok. Maybe that should have been my first hint. That I wasn't in the mood to write and that I'd rather clean. Maybe I should have known right then.....
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Living the Life of Holly |
Column # 149 Burning
Desire |
| Ok. Maybe that should have been my first hint. That I wasn't in the mood to write and that I'd rather clean. Maybe I should have known right then..... |
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www.livingthelifeofholly.com Cool-guy walked in and looked around. He stopped, shocked by what he saw. My dining room table had been cleared of clutter. My chairs were available for sitting on. My art work that had been leaning against the walls since I’d moved in had been hung, neatly around my apartment. My plants had been repotted and were placed around the room where they would get the most sun. “Come here.” He said, sternly. “It looks good.” I said, smiling. “Doesn’t it?” “You must be sick. Do you have a fever?” “Very funny.” I said, hurt. “I’ve worked for hours.” “Yeah. Come here.” He said seriously, reaching out his hand. “What?” I attituded. “Are you suggesting that I can’t take a day off to fix up my apartment?” “You never take a day off. You’re an every day writer.” He crossed the room and felt my forehead. His face softened. “Honey. I thought so. You’re burning up.” “I am?” He laughed. “You need to go to bed. You have a high fever.” Ok. It was true. I hadn’t felt good all day, which was why I didn’t think I could write which was why I thought I would clean. Ok. So. Maybe that should have been a clue that something was drastically wrong. That I would choose cleaning over writing. “How long have you felt this way?” “All day. Oh. No. Oh. God. Do you think I’ve finally become allergic to my epilepsy medicine, Topamax?” I started sneezing as the phone rang. It was Mark. “Hey. Something’s wrong. I have a really high fever. I’m afraid that I’ve finally become allergic to my medicine. Oh. God. Do you think I need to go to the emergency room?” I started another sneezing fit. Mark sighed. “Holly. My God. It’s on CNN. You have the flu. How could you be so out of touch with the world? You have the flu. It’s going around Colorado. It’s in the Rocky Mountain News. Little kids have died from it. You’ll have high fevers and sneezing and dehydration. Make sure you drink lots of fluids.” I turned to Cool-guy. “Mark says I have the flu.” “Oh. Yeah. That’s going around my office.” “Go to bed. Sleep. No writing.” Mark said into the phone. “Hey. Guess what? I wasn’t feeling well enough to write so I hung my art work.” “I’m going to buy you a subscription to the newspaper so you know when you have the flu.” Mark promised. Cool-guy tucked me into bed. “How could I get the flu?” “From the air. Germs. Door handles. People coughing.” “No. But. I spend all my time in my apartment writing. I never leave. Someone must have brought it here to me.” “You got it at the grocery store.” “I’m mostly a hermit. How could I get the flu? Someone must have brought it IN to me.” I insinuated. “Don’t take it so personally.” He said. “I’m going to make you a smoothie.” “Um. Out of what?” “Whatever’s in your fridge.” “Brown rice and almonds? No thanks. I’ll die.” “You’re right. Come on. I’m kidnapping you. I have food at my house.” For the next two weeks I let Cool-guy take care of me. He made me smoothies. He brought me water. He woke me up so I could take my medicine. When he went to work, I’d make my way to the dining room table to do some writing. Yeah. Till he caught me. “No writing. You heard Mark.” “He’s not my doctor. He’s my friend.” “The way I see it Mark’s the one who diagnosed you. So you have to listen to him. If you want a different diagnosis, you need to go to the doctor.” “Why? So the doctor can tell me I have the flu? No thanks. Mark already told me.” “No writing.” “I want to write. I need to write. I like to write. I want to write.” “No writing. Not till you get better.” “Ok. Fine. I’m better.” “Really?” “Yes.” “Ok. Let’s go for a walk. Outside. Right now. Something easy. Say one mile.” “No. I don’t feel like it.” “Holly.” He said, rubbing my cheek. “Go to sleep. You can write columns in your head.” I yawned. “Yeah. Good idea. I’m tired.” “I’m going to hide your computer for a few days so you aren’t inclined to write when I’m not home.” “Don't do it.” I warned, lying down in bed. “Yeah? Ms. Sickly-weakling. What are you going to do about it?” “Well. When I’m laying in bed writing columns in my head….” “Yeah?” He said, laying next to me and rubbing my back. “I’ll write about that time when you dried out the fish.” “You already wrote about that.” He laughed. “I’ll write about it again and again and again.” “Sleep.” He commanded. “You….. (yawn)…….. can’t……..(yawn)………make…….(yawn)……….”
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