Post Attack

This morning I am drinking coffee again.

I have not gone two days without caffeine since before the Wall came down. I don’t know if I should got to work or not, but I am restless and need to get out. There is a big meeting out at Tysons that I probably should be present for, face-time being important these days, but the fever dementia of the last few days has made me quite disoriented.

I’m assessing the damage, still sweating, to see what the consequences might be.  

This is the post attack phase, time to evaluate the event and enter the results into the Lessons-Learned data base, just like the Joint Chiefs do at the Pentagon.

I took notes, at least while I was an active participant in the action, before I became a pawn in the battle, hostage to combat at the cellular level, white cell versus virus.

I look back on it. Onset: First noted low lung infection Sunday AM. Chills and fever Sunday evening. I could not watch the television, since it hurt my eyes. The radio was my only companion as I huddled under the quilt.

Monday faded back to gray, wind buffeting the windows. Bad chills, hacking, wheezing. Can’t keep food down.

Coretta Scott King visited, looked dignified and grave, and so did a cartoon figure of the Prophet Mohammed. He had a quizzical look, and a burning fuze projecting from the top of his turban. Angry Iranians made an appearance in the afternoon, saying they were resolute and righteous in their desire to get nuclear power .

The President was hear, too, over and over again. His face might have been the most constant. He said he was resolute, and that we would fight the battle for freedom wherever it occurred.

I recall words like “isolationism” and a commitment to some gasoline made of grass. But I may have hallucinated that. The President said my Iranian guests did not want power, but rather a bomb, and I had the distinct opinion that they wanted it to bomb Denmark, where the cartoon Mohammed came from.

Poor Danes, I thought. They were a lusty bunch of Vikings who carved up their world, before they were neutered by Christ. Now a cartoon figure has their government wrapped in a knot.

Hamas kindly paid a courtesy call, later in the afternoon, and stayed for tea, though I could not rise to join them. 

Now that they are in power, I wish them the very best. Now they have to pretend to be grownups, and can’t blow themselves up at the dinner-table.

I think.

Tuesday was the worst, since they were all there, taking their turns at my bedside. maybe it was the radio that murmured around the clock. But I think they were there. I could not focus or type, and there was something that I had to do which required a hard walk down from Upper Big Pink to Lower.

I could not remember what it was when I arrived, and huddled on the Murphy bed. I woke again around noon, bathed in sweat. The Iranians had stepped out, and there was slight moderation of the roller-coaster of chills to sweats cycle continues.

Weds, I looked for the president but he had apparently gone on to other meetings. I blinked. the fever cycle seemed to be moderating. I go out to the store to buy more drugs. Work semi-productively until around 1.30 pm and then hit the wall, sleep the rest of the afternoon.

Thursday: Back to work? I probably should stay home, but there are some things I can only do there, records and such in old notebooks. I think I am no longer infectious, and I certainly do not want to inflict this on anyone else. The tug of the office is compelling.

I realize, for example, that what did not take me away this time is exactly what will some day, when my lungs and heat are not as strong as they are this year in this time. We lose many thousands of old folks each year to this common bug, and we lose the little ones, too.

That was the difference with the Big Flu of 1918- that one took the ones in the middle, the Moms and Dads, and the Doctors and Nurses and the young soldiers, hale and fit. The Flu is always deadly. But the way it normally works makes it seem like it is part of the rhythm of life.

The fever and the radio are remarkable things. I’m glad I did not have it set to the local news. That might have been depressing.

Copyright 2006 Vic Socotra

www.vicsocotra.com

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