It starts, for me,
with a slightly different "taste"
to my phlegm-clearing cough,
part of my everday life,
since I've smoked for years.
A faint alarm goes off
in the back of my head,
but the busy mom-mind
shrugs it off. Then comes
the cat-fur feel inside of my throat,
along with a splintery feeling
behind my nose. First day done.
That night, I wake up several times,
to cough, and doze off again,
you can't cough in your sleep, really,
the mind comes semi-awake,
REM sleep never seems to
fully develop and rest is lost.
In the morning,
the splintery feeling has spread,
I can't stop sneezing,
the first flush of headache,
still bearable, grips
the back of my head,
arrowing inward to meet
suddenly-felt sinuses. Nose clearing
and blowing mulitply, cat fur clogs
my swallowing, lumped with slime,
and moving up and down in my throat.
Arms and legs begin to ache,
head flares more and more
with each soggy tissue
thrown into the garbage.
Mouth opens and nose closes,
eyes water and scratch.
Rasping pain builds
as bellowing coughs ring out,
spewing hairballs into my mouth,
tasting of sludgy lungs
and dead bacteria. By now,
my body is prone on the couch,
one big ache topped by
a balloon of broken glass,
shifting and jabbing
with no rhyme or reason.
The next night is spent
tossing and burning,
sweating and chilling,
seconds of unconciousness
followed by racking spells
of whooping and trying to breath.
Eyes are crusty with dried tears
when I get up, head is about to split
and shafts deep pain when I move
from the bed to the couch, again.
I have wads of Kleenix on my chest,
ready to grab and dab
ever-dripping nostrils.
Half empty glasses of juice
or water, empty cold packages
and cough drop wrappers
fill the table that's in arms reach.
My mind is in a stupor,
sent to the land where
Time crawls and tarries,
nothing matters
except laying still,
surviving...at last,
in the deepest of night,
fever burns me out, sending
sheets of sweat to pool
in my hollowed out
hole-in-the-bed. The
surge of drugged sleep
loosens my frame, relaxing
my clenched limbs,
which feel rubbery and slack.
In the morning, I can walk
slowly around the house,
picking up the debris-strewn
battlefield, feeling alive,
at least a little more
like normal, anyway.
The war has been won,
recovery begins,
life is sweet.

Erin Moen
9/17/02

*Once again, the nightmare clutch begins...


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Reader Reviews for "Cold's Clutch"

Reviewed by Janet Caldwell (author) 11/3/2002

You have no idea how riveting this is. Right??? Who else could write about this subject matter and hold us captive? LOLOLOL You're great! I wish you everything that you can have!!!!!!

Love, JC xoxoxoxo

Reviewed by Maria Lupinacci (author) 11/3/2002

Erin,
Your imagery is amazing! I agree with Ronald, this should be submitted somewhere! Especially with the seasons changing in a lot of areas, this is a real keeper!

Hugs,
Maria


Reviewed by Eileen Waldron (author) 11/3/2002

Erin your descriptive powers are amazing I think I now have the cold;-) wonderfully done;-)


Reviewed by Zara Lafage (author) 11/3/2002

Oh I hate colds.. get better good write.


Reviewed by Ronald Hull (author) 11/3/2002

It was bound to happen. Mine was about trying to write with a cold. Yours, on the other hand, is a tome of an epic journey worthy of a medical journal in its ghastly graphic.

Glad mine are not like yours. I can credit never smoking to that--whew!