The down-side of taking high-powered antibiotics and steroids is that they wipe out your microbial Security Team and hold up the process of sending in replacements. This leaves a person vulnerable to opportunistic infections, those Wall Street-type pathogens that sniff out weakness and engineer a hostile take-over.
I got a wicked sore throat last week. When I bought a little flashlight to get a good look, I can only describe the scene as Wes Craven-esque. When I stopped screaming, I pulled out my dusty nurse-lore. What I worried about being a strep infection was, in fact, thrush. Two words, then I won’t traumatize you any further: Cheesy. Pustule. Now back away slowly from Google, grab up your shotgun, and run.
But all is not Night of the Living Dead-Serious. My physical hobgoblins haven’t triggered any mental ones—other than a few wisps of depression that passed like cabbage-induced air biscuits (Oh, how I love fart humor. Go here if you do, too). And my friend, Linda, sent me some major distraction.
She used to own a shop in Minneapolis that sold crystals, semi-precious stones, jewelry and pan-spiritual gifts and tools. She also let me try to sell my cards there. The shop closed several years ago, and Linda stowed boxes and bags of inventory while she took care of other life-business. Last week she sent me a twelve-pound box of beads, cabochons, broken bits, and a big grab-bag of unsorted stuff—mostly seed beads and tiny shells. Linda’s clear-out was my Merry Christmas!
So, after I gargle and swish my new medicine (sort of a cross between Milk of Magnesia and Lysol), I fight Henry for the good chair, then sit at the table and sort. Henry likes to sit with me when I’m at my studio, but doesn’t care for the straight-backed chair that goes with the old dining table. Even when I tart it up with his Girlfriend (a purple throw that he romances regularly), he still shuns it for my comfy, rolling desk chair. He casts the Evil Cat Stink-Eye until I switch chairs with him. If I’m not fast enough, he climbs in behind me and wedges me out. Giving up the chair is a matter of self-preservation, not indulgence. Other cat-keepers will understand.
It’s a fine way convalesce: a hot mug of apple cider and green tea at one elbow next to my blazing Happy Light, one cat snoring at the other elbow while another swirls around my ankles, my Pandora station filling the air with The Civil Wars and Dave Matthews, a gallon of goodies to sort.
Oh, and then there’s the shotgun in the corner—just in case.
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SandySue Altered
A Mind Divided 