Revelation for today:  It’s really boring being home sick.

I don’t know why so many people apparently like it. I admit that at times it has seemed romantic in the abstract — oh, stay home and read books all day, or watch movies, or, I dunno, finally file all the paid bills — but in the reality of the situation, it’s the equivalent of that blank screen or blank sheet of paper to a writer:  daunting. With all this time on one’s hands, no matter how you fill it, it seems purposeless.

This must be what faces those who “retire.” I put it into quote marks to remind myself of the alien nature of this concept, and that I never intend to do it. All the men I know who’ve retired died shortly thereafter; the women lived on to share stories of the old times spent with those men.

So, yes, I’m home. And writing. Ignoring the hacking cough and the cotton-stuffed head and the ringing ears and my near muteness. How does Black Bolt rule an entire race without being able to utter a syllable? I have a newfound respect for Medusa’s powers of interpretation. I should add that since developing this total laryngitis, late last night, my abilities as a mime have increased dramatically. I gestured to my wife that when she went shopping I wanted some Le Petit Ecolier cookies — we call them “Little Paul” cookies at my house, because of an inferred resemblance to a friend — and pointed to the milk-chocolate version still hanging around the house. She replied, verbally, that she thought I preferred the dark-chocolate version; in reply, I moved my outspread arms up and down to simulate a balance scale, indicating that they were of equal value to me. She rolled her eyes and trundled off to the store.

Last night was the first indication that I might be facing trouble today. I went out for dinner to Faith & Flower with my friend Doug, in for the day from Austin, TX. I had already had a hacking cough; as the evening wore on and the restaurant transcended slowly into more of a downtown club, we found ourselves competing in volume with the music. By the time we parted ways on the platform of the subway station, I was capable of only a shrill twisted squawk. At home half an hour later, I couldn’t make even that sound. My kids gleefully went around imitating me.

It’s difficult to get what you want easily when you can’t say anything. But Skype has helped. I Skyped my assistant to ask him to bring my laptop and some papers to me at home, and they arrived promptly. I’ve been texting. Now I’m trying to figure out what I’m going to do tomorrow — I’m presiding over a board meeting tomorrow, my last as chair. As curatives, I’m downing all the potions my wife is prescribing. If I still can’t utter an intelligible word tomorrow, I guess I’ll have to ask my friend Barry to serve as my Medusa.

This entry was posted on Thursday, June 12th, 2014 at 1:45 pm and is filed under Thoughts. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.