Almost like clockwork, my nemesis – a respiratory infection – returned last week. And, as usual, I tried to ignore it. After all it is summer and nobody should be ill.
But this morning I succumbed and called the doctor. It only took me four days this time, as opposed to two weeks the last time. The thing is, I have to feel really bad in order to spend the money on a doctor visit to document what I already know. But that is the only way to get a prescription for antibiotics. Which, of course, is the road to recovery but costs, in addition to the office visit to my doc.
At the same time, feeling puny in summer is even worse than feeling puny in winter. I’m reminded of Robert Louis Stevenson’s poem “The Land of Counterpane.” It’s about a boy who is sick and temporarily bedridden and who passes the time with two pillows at his head and his toy soldiers beside him to romp on the changing hills caused by his moving about the bed linens. The poem doesn’t elaborate, but I choose to believe the boy is sick in summer.
I have my own version of Counterpane. In my case, I have no toy soldiers; rather I prefer sections of newspaper – the Style section, the Book section, the Arts section, etc – arrayed over the sheets and waiting for my attention. But I feel a connection to Stevenson’s lad nevertheless. I hope both of us are better soon.
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