I’ve been sick. Really, really sick. I’m better now and can talk about it, but I could not reveal that I was sick because my mother reads my column. My siblings and I learned long ago not to let on we were sick lest it unleashed Mom’s alter-ego—Mega Mother Hen!
When we were kids and caught a cold, she went into Mega Mother Hen mode. Out came the vitamin C, Chinese egg drop soup, cough syrup, and Vicks VapoRub smeared all over your chest. But the worst was The Drink.
Mom swore by this remedy, which she had been given as a child by my grandmother. She’d get a large tumbler from the cupboard and pour a shot of whatever hard liquor was on hand—usually whiskey, Scotch, or bourbon. She’d squeeze the juice of an entire lemon into this followed by a large dollop of honey. Then she’d fill the tumbler up with hot, hot water.
“Drink this up,” she’d say sweetly, “and you can stay up and watch TV with me.”
My doofus brothers fell for this every time and within 15 minutes of downing her concoction they were fast asleep.
I, the oldest and thus wiser child, held my nose and took large swigs, cleverly spaced so I got to watch at least one program before falling unconscious. My sister, though, would piddle around, sipping and slipping into the bathroom to pour out as much as she could when Mom wasn’t looking.
As much as we hated The Drink, we all got over our colds quickly, except my sister, who languished for days with the malaise. To this day none of us care for liquor or cocktails.
Mom did make up for forcing us to imbibe the beverage from hell by bringing us dinner plates of homemade pot roast, mashed potatoes with gravy, and peas, which we ate in bed. This meal still remains the ultimate comfort food for me.
When we were in college, Mom would send care packages filled with herbal teas, Sucrets, boxes of tissues, and bottles of mega-dose vitamin C. Our universities weren’t so far away that she couldn’t drive there and check on us, oh God help us!
She’d call us and the inquisition would commence.
“Are you taking your vitamin C? Do you have enough tissues? Do you have cough syrup? Have you got chicken soup? Are you getting enough rest? Have you seen the doctor? You don’t want this to go into pneumonia!”
Replies of “Mom, I’m fine,” only made it worse. “I’ll be there in an hour,” declared Wonder Woman. She’d arrive in a whirlwind of energy, armed with an arsenal of aspirin, Vicks, cough syrup, tissues, tea, honey, lemon, throat lozenges, Chinese egg drop soup, and 7UP.
I remember calling my brother John at his frat house. His voice was so hoarse it could pull a Budweiser wagon.
“You sound sick,” I said.
“I am,” he wheezed. “For God’s sake don’t tell Mom!”
“And if I do?” I teased.
“Oh, hell,” he sighed. “I’ll just have to go into witness protection!”
“Nice knowing you!” I taunted. I didn’t rat him out, I just asked Mom if she had called him lately.
“Why? What’s wrong?” she snapped. “Is he sick? He’s sick, isn’t he? Where’s the phone?”
To this day John has not forgiven me.
I’m still recovering from what I thought was a bad cold or bronchitis. Like the despicable guest who will not leave, the symptoms showed up without warning and have lingered for several weeks.
They arrived suddenly, with an unstoppable, hacking cough. I tried steaming it, starving it, feeding it, drugging it, and sweating it off, but the unwanted guest stayed on.
My head felt two sizes too big, my voice was so husky it could pull a dogsled, and my nose was sore and raw with red, crusty edges that hurt like nothing else. It’s as if the tip of my nose has been singed with the burning end of a cigar.
Blowing my nose sounds like the blasts of a shofar. That’s me—Ariel Waterman, live in concert. At night my sinuses would run like a leaky faucet so I’d roll up tissues and stuff them into each nostril. Yes, I am the walrus—coo-coo-aaaah-CHOO!
My throat was inflamed, scratchy, and itchy and I relied on ice-cold Pepsi to chill my sore gullet and serve as a sort of backscratcher for the itchy feeling. God, even my face, teeth, and hair hurt. Please, Lord, just take me now.
Then one morning I awoke and realized that I was barely able to breathe. My chest felt like it was being crushed by a car compactor. I drove myself to the Arroyo Grande Community Hospital ER at 5 in the morning. Tests showed severe exacerbated asthma. The wonderful nurses and doctors were quite concerned.
They proceeded to administer steroids and Albuterol with a nebulizer to open my airways, followed by Pulmicort to keep them open. Desperate for oxygen, I sucked on the mouthpiece of that nebulizer like an addict in a Victorian opium den with a hookah. I was so jittery from corticosteroids that I looked like I had the DTs.
The doctor on duty advised me to watch the weather reports and take an antihistamine whenever the winds kick up. He also suggested plenty of fluids, rest, and fresh fruit. I’ve always wondered—if an apple a day keeps the doctor away, how do they live with themselves? I have now learned to be prepared for an asthma attack. They are scary, and I never want to feel like that again, so I am always armed with an arsenal of antihistamines, a nebulizer, inhalers, steam mister, tissues with lotion, tea, honey, lemon, throat lozenges, ice water, and my favorite throw, jammies, and slippers.
I also watch the weather reports. I love KSBY meteorologist Dave Hovde because he is so good at his job, giving fair warning of air quality and pollen counts that are anathema to allergy and asthma sufferers. But does the man have to sound so damn chipper about it? His warnings of high winds blowing all that stuff around sound just as cheerful as his promises of wonderful weekend beach weather. Come on, Dave. Tone it down, man. People are sick here!
Ariel Waterman is now able to sit up and take light nourishment. Send pot roast, mashed potatoes, and peas via Managing Editor Joe Payne at jpayne@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in May 25 – Jun 1, 2017.