Even a miserable cold couldn't dim the joy of Thanksgiving
/The Boston Herald
Beverly Beckham
It begins with a tickle in the back of the throat. Nothing to worry about. Just a tickle. Probably a dog or cat hair lodged in the esophagus. There are dog and cats hairs all over this house. I drink orange juice and hot tea to dislodge it. I say it is nothing, that it will go away.
"No it won't. You're getting a cold," the chorus around me sings. "There's a terrible cold going around and you're getting it."
"I am not. I am perfectly fine," I insist. I have to be perfectly fine. I'm having Thanksgiving. I have to shop, cook, clean, work. I will not get a cold. I will not let a cold get me.
The next day I wake up and my voice is crinkly, like cellophane. "You sound terrible," my family says. "I feel fine," I argue. They go to work and to school. I go into my office to write.
Rose calls. "God. You don't even sound like you. I hope you don't get that bug Richard and I had. He's still sick and I had to take two days off from work last week. How do you feel?"
"All right. Really. It's nothing. It's dog hair. There's hair all over this house. I have to have the ducts cleaned."
Rose recommends Theraflu.
"It's not a cold, Rose, really."
The dog hair works its way up my throat into my ears and behind my eyeballs. I take Extra-Strength Tylenol with my tea, turn up the heat. Put on a heavy sweater. Shiver. Sweat.
In front of the computer, I struggle to think. But the mind is fuzz. I feel like a pilot flying through thick fog. A few times, I spot a glimmer of light and I think, this is great. I'm coming out of it. I write furiously then, energized by that light. But then the fog descends and each time it does it is thicker and grayer than before.
After work, my husband and I go to the grocery store.
"Why don't you let me go?" he says. "You should stay home and rest."
"No. No. I want to go," I say.
I am in denial. I am still blaming the dog and cat and an ancient heating system for my clogged throat and now-watery eyes. I believe that if I leave the house I will feel better.
And I do. For a whole hour I am out of the clouds and flying in the sun. We buy turnip and egg nog and all our Thanksgiving food, plus Stephen King's new book, "Dolores Claiborne."
"See, I'm not sick," I say proudly. "Let's stop at the card store. Let's go get some chili."
I collapse when I get home. Now I am no longer a pilot in a fog. I am a pilot in trouble. My motor has stopped. I plummet into an abyss. I feel so horrible I don't even feel like reading.
My husband puts the food away while I drink Alka Seltzer Plus Cold Medicine and complain. I can't be sick. I have to make cookies. I have to iron tablecloths. I have so much to do!
I fall into bed. "I'm just going to lie down for a minute." The minute becomes hours. But on Thanksgiving morning I awaken, reborn.
The feeling lasts maybe 10 minutes. I peel potatoes, then take Ibuprofen. I bake, then swallow Comtrex and put Vicks Vap-o-Rub on my nose.
My son walks through the door. I haven't seen him since July. My father arrives with his wife and my sister-in-law with her boyfriend and Grandma comes, followed by my favorite little kids in the whole world - Jessica, Tabitha, Xena and Shiloh - and we all sit at two tables squeezed into the dining room - and I look around and am so full of thanks.
I want this moment to linger. It does, but I don't. Right after dinner, I give in to the cold. My head is too heavy to hold up anymore. I go to bed. My husband takes over. I hear him clearing the table, doing the dishes, serving dessert. I hear everyone talking, laughing, having a good time.
I am so blessed, I think, before I drift off. My whole family, under one roof, sharing a meal, enjoying their time together. Getting along. Liking one another.
Even a miserable, rotten cold couldn't dim the joy of this day.
