coughin' not coffin
"Because I could not stop for Death / He kindly stopped for me"
These words from an Emily Dickinson poem have run through my head several times in the past few days. Death, it seems, has a sense of humor because I have what my family and co-workers are calling the "death cough" and instead of moving it, it's just hanging around.
I think the term "death cough" is really not appropriate, especially given the way I feel. I'm more of a poet at heart and would describe it as, "the sounds of a pot party in the asthma ward." It's hard to believe that the noises coming from me are the sounds of only one person. And I feel like my old '84 Blazer looked after 8 seasons driving a washboard road to work every day. Falling apart one piece at a time, I rattle when I start up, and eventually even when I sit still, and folks who look at me think, "that horse should be put out to pasture."
Now that I've mixed a bunch of metaphors and conflicting images, I'll return to lamenting my pitiful state. I feel yucky and I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired. We've had our share of sickness this year between the boy and his dad, and I'm not really excited about it being my turn. Jackie Mason supposedly said, "It's no longer a question of staying healthy. It's a question of finding a sickness you like. " I can tell you I don't like this one. I would prefer one where my sides don't ache and my body shakes while my lungs try to expel themselves and their contagions from my chest.
Luckily for me, I have my Irish heritage to help me overcome any obstacle. Although the Irish proverb says, "A good laugh and a long sleep are the best cures in the doctor's book," I take it one step further and make my grammie's traditional Irish cure - a strong cup of tea, a little honey, and a healthy dose of Irish spirits. It's the ale what cures you, my father always said, and this was probably the only point upon which he and my grammie ever agreed.
So I'm off for another spot of tea.... and to borrow another good Irish saying and wish each of you good health - "As you slide down the banister of life, May the splinters never point in the wrong direction!"
These words from an Emily Dickinson poem have run through my head several times in the past few days. Death, it seems, has a sense of humor because I have what my family and co-workers are calling the "death cough" and instead of moving it, it's just hanging around.
I think the term "death cough" is really not appropriate, especially given the way I feel. I'm more of a poet at heart and would describe it as, "the sounds of a pot party in the asthma ward." It's hard to believe that the noises coming from me are the sounds of only one person. And I feel like my old '84 Blazer looked after 8 seasons driving a washboard road to work every day. Falling apart one piece at a time, I rattle when I start up, and eventually even when I sit still, and folks who look at me think, "that horse should be put out to pasture."
Now that I've mixed a bunch of metaphors and conflicting images, I'll return to lamenting my pitiful state. I feel yucky and I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired. We've had our share of sickness this year between the boy and his dad, and I'm not really excited about it being my turn. Jackie Mason supposedly said, "It's no longer a question of staying healthy. It's a question of finding a sickness you like. " I can tell you I don't like this one. I would prefer one where my sides don't ache and my body shakes while my lungs try to expel themselves and their contagions from my chest.
Luckily for me, I have my Irish heritage to help me overcome any obstacle. Although the Irish proverb says, "A good laugh and a long sleep are the best cures in the doctor's book," I take it one step further and make my grammie's traditional Irish cure - a strong cup of tea, a little honey, and a healthy dose of Irish spirits. It's the ale what cures you, my father always said, and this was probably the only point upon which he and my grammie ever agreed.
So I'm off for another spot of tea.... and to borrow another good Irish saying and wish each of you good health - "As you slide down the banister of life, May the splinters never point in the wrong direction!"
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