Grateful for the village...

“He who created us without our help, will

not help save us without our consent.”

– Saint Augustine

I don’t like getting sick. I try to avoid it like the plague. When it happens, my brain doesn’t function in a rational way. I try to tough it out and wait for the storm to dissipate, but in fact, it has never worked. Each time I have gotten ill, I have eventually seen a doctor. In my altered state of mind, I've gone only after a lot of outside encouragement.

This was no exception…

“I don’t know Leonard. I just don’t like the sound of this,” the Indian said. “I think you should get checked out.” By the time we were riding in the car I had been feeling funky for ten days. Molly, by the way, had been telling me this for five of them.

The way it began…

When I got back from New Zealand, I felt great. Going I had no jet lag, and coming home after a week and a half, I also had none. I have come to believe that jet lag is little more than high altitude sickness with a little biorhythm change mixed in. Older aircraft typically have an internal cabin pressure of around 8,000ft (2,400m), whereas the Airbus 380, double decker I rode to and from the land of the ‘Middle Earth,’ has an internal cabin pressure of about 6,100ft (1,800m). Hence much less high altitude effect.

Even the biorhythm changes were not that dramatic. New Zealand, because it is beyond the International Dateline, is 20 hours ahead of Tucson, but to the body's biorhythm, it is only four hours out. New Zealand is basically one full-time zone further away than Hawaii from Los Angeles (three hours’ difference). When it is 1 PM Tuesday here, it is 9 AM Wednesday morning there. The ‘next morning’ is an International Dateline convention.

I had a great night's sleep Tuesday on my return, and Wednesday morning I was ready to go…a full day’s work as if the trip had never occurred. Thursday morning, I had a bit of a sore throat, inconvenient, but workable. By Thursday night, however, things had gone south quickly.  The weekend passed, and by Tuesday, things were looking up. I was still not firing on all cylinders but gave a long-scheduled talk for the AARP Wednesday at noon. By the time I got home, I was exhausted and went straight to bed.

Thursday, the Indian came to town. I picked him up for breakfast, and we did what old friends do – caught up on our lives. On the drive, to and from breakfast, I mentioned I was feeling pretty fatigued. He asked a few casual questions and then said, “I don’t know Leonard. I just don’t like the sound of this. I think you should get checked out.” I have a natural aversion to doctor visits, so grunted something like maybe that would be a good idea and dropped him off.

A little background…

Dave is an old friend from the Vietnam era. After the war, we lived together before going our separate ways. During that last year, he became the ‘Indian’ and I ‘Leonard’…names we have called each other ever since.  The origin of these nicknames may have lost their sharp edges over the mists of time, but like the indelible ink of an intricate tattoo, they became symbols of brotherly affection and respect.

In subsequent years, he went on to a career in medicine. It was decades before we caught up again, but as with meaningful friendships, when we connected over dinner in a small Ohio town, it was as if it had been but a yesterday since we last visited.

The present again…

Friday, my friend Frank and I had a light lunch and hung out for an hour or two. He wondered out loud whether I should see someone. I assured him I was okay. When we were done, I went back to bed, slept for the afternoon and the night.  Saturday, I had an obligation that took the morning.  Once finished, I stopped by the Indian’s Tucson hideout and chewed the fat for a couple of hours. Then it was back to bed once again exhausted. The rest of the weekend I drifted in and out of wild dream-filled sleep.

A conspiracy is hatched…

I have a niece who is a doctor in Baltimore. I thought I would give her a call, and get a second opinion. After all, she knows me well and would reinforce fluids, a little Tylenol and rest.  She would tell me to let the thing run its course, and all would be well. 

After chatting a little, she said, “Teddy, I think you ought to see your doc and check it out. Maybe a chest x-ray and a few other blood tests might also be in order.” Really? I wondered whether she and the Indian had had a conversation. I hung up and whined a bit to Molly, who immediately reminded me I was NOT 50 anymore…to suck it up and go see the doctor.

The next day, the Indian checked in and reported he had spoken to his wife (a physician) and the guy he was staying with (also a physician), and their consensus was that I that I definitely needed to see my doctor. With all that wind at my sails and Molly at the helm, I made the appointment and had the visit. I grumbled a little through the exam, indicating I was only there because a ‘kitchen cabinet medical team’ AND MY WIFE, had insisted. He smiled and agreed I had done the right thing. It might have been even better had I come in a little earlier he gently suggested. He gave me a course of antibiotics and told me to report back to him.

Update...

By now, I am definitely on the mend, meaning I’m getting more quality ‘up time’ during the day and am pretty sure this flu/cold thing will not be the beginning of the end. There is still a lingering fatigue, but each morning, I feel more energy for the day.

I suppose it is a sad commentary that I needed the kind of push that I got to do the right thing for my health. On the other hand, I was reminded there are people in my life who love and care about me.  The Indian left ten days ago, but has continued to text to see how I am doing. That guy and others who kicked me in the shins, will never really know how much their care and love has meant to me.

- ted