I have entered into the darkness of the worst cold in the history of the world. And, graciously, heroically, I have agreed to send dispatches back until my communication apparatuses fail. I can tell you this: if you are pregnant and cannot take your usual seven Tylenol Cold and Flu tablets, 3 Mucinex, and a quart of Nyquil, Vicks might make you feel slightly better. It's best application, however, is as a talisman, warding off all other people. "Hey, Mar-- what's that smell? Oh, God, are you SICK?"
Unfortunately, with this cold there is a high risk of betrayal by those around you. For instance, the child I have raised and loved for nine years, eight months and fourteen days cruelly turned back onto me the words I used last week to offer her solace during her slight-clearly-totally-different-from-this-cold-cold. "Geez, Mama, it's just a cold. You'll get over it." For her sake, I hope I do.
This cold is powerful. So powerful it will take away the senses of humor of those around you. For instance, if you go to bed at seven and thus wake up at 3am and decide to kill time by moaning and occasionally crying out, "The light! It's so beautiful! I'm coming, Grandma!" your partner may pull the blanket over his head and mumble, "Seriously? What time is it?"
Time doesn't mean much to me anymore. I just know it's close. I'm sneezing again now. Sneezing a lot. Before I go, I want you to know I loved a few of you very much. The rest of you I just tolerated.
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