A sense of humor keeps BJ afloat when flu season delivers her an ocean of anguish

Reprinted from Hagerstown Magazine Nov/Dec 2006, HagerstownMagazine.com

Who didn't get the flu the winter of 1999-2000? And what a flu! One day I'm feeling great. I go to two Christmas parties, and I'm more loquacious than usual. Old friends regale me with their musings and fascinating tales about what they're up to.

At work the following morning, however, I suddenly feel awful. The flu truck has run me over. Instantly, I have a sore throat, megatons of pressure around my eyes and nose, a cough and a burgeoning impatience. There are only two clear thoughts: 1) I must lie down and 2) my sinuses will soon explode.

Having oozed back home, I crawl into bed. My husband, Bruce, asks if I want some water. He can see my lips are parched. My throat is raw and swollen. I can breathe only with my mouth open. If I close it, it sticks together, but do I want water?

Then Bruce asks me if I want to eat. I don't know the answer to that, nor have I the wherewithal to consider it. I just lie there occasionally thinking I might do something, like go to the bathroom. I think about it some more. A sensible thing to do. I plan on it. It is what I'll do. … Maybe a half hour or 45 minutes goes by, and I'm still gawking at the ceiling. It occurs to me that this might not be a bad way to die. It's uncomfortable enough to want to, slow enough to say goodbye and quick enough not to burden others for long.

I cannot sleep and, while apparently unable to care about anything going on around me, I, nevertheless, make a list of noble things I must do with my life — none of them simpler than changing who I am or initiating a new business venture. Incidentally, I take note of every cobweb and dust ball I'd never noticed before. I'll have to do something about those some day, I conclude as I sink back into a stupor.

Anything that manages to make it into my consciousness from the outer world moves me deeply and makes me want to cry. The music and people from The Buena Vista Social Club are poignant in their aged vigor. A TV ad depicting housewifely delight with a shiny coffee table reverberates deeply in my heart.

Once, I catch a glimpse of myself as I hobble into the bathroom. I've aged about 15 years — not gracefully. I gaze into the image to see if I can find the person I once was. Little piggy eyes glint back at me. If there's a person in there, she's very far away.

Then, on the fifth morning, I look out the window and notice that there's a world out there. Surely, I'd seen it before, but suddenly, it is of interest. I can finally sleep, napping after every tidbit of activity. When Bruce asks me if I want to eat, I know the answer, salivating.

After a couple more days, when I go outside, I notice a first-year mullein in the garden. Its lavish rosette of fuzzy gray-green leaves looks like velvet, a faux flower designed by the Mad Hatter. I consume it with my eyes. I drive to Shepherdstown, W.Va., to run some errands. There's an unusual outpouring of activity. The streets are crawling with photographers and plastered with peace signs in English, Hebrew and Arabic. The President is visiting. Middle East peace talks have resumed. I care. I've returned from Fluland to the nation of the living!