I can't even begin to tell you how much better I'm feeling this week. No RA symptoms, fevers have been down in the mornings (unfortunately, up in the evenings), and overall, I'm feeling much more human - especially after the earlier bout with this summer plague earlier in the week. I have to say that in spite of "being sick," this is probably the best I've felt since the summer of 2006. Having lost almost 20 lbs ain't so bad, either.The cough, sadly, is hanging on. And it's not attractive. It tends to get worse at night, so I try to stay hydrated, keeping the iced glass of eight parts water to one part cranberry juice, limeade, orange juice, or whatever I've got in the fridge, close by. The evening ritual has also come to include a sugar-free Popsicle. This week I bought a 24-pack of "tropical fruit" flavors - which were probably developed in some kind of lab versus them actually containing any pineapple, orange, or something called Hawaiian Berry. The pops themselves are neon in hue and absolutely yummy, although I think the health benefit to be derived from it is pretty much zero.
Unfortunately, last night the Hawaiian Berry gave me a little scare. At around 11PM, I was in bed watching Family Guy when I got seized with a bad coughing fit. I got out of bed and went into the bathroom for some tissues. The coughing got out of control. I couldn't get my breath, and before I knew it - yeah, you guessed it - things got a little messy. Fortunately, I didn't Jimi Hendrix myself - but I ended up hurling all over the bathroom sink.
Here's the weird part. Upon recovery I noticed that the resulting yak was bright red in hue. For a horrible moment I was certain I had thrown up blood and that I was about to cough up a vital organ or two - that this was the end - I had finally discovered exactly what my Opera Death would look like.
To explain the concept of Opera Death: this is something my friends and I came up with while working for the Metropolitan Opera, way back in the nineties before the place was post-retro cool. Opera Death consists of falling prey to one of two scenarios: dying either of unrequited love or tuberculosis. Contrary to popular opinion, Opera Death can take place anywhere, not just in the nineteenth century. So long as it has some kind of Puccini-esque element of tragedy; you could off yourself in the middle of Giants Stadium, or cough yourself to pieces on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange; Tosca and Boheme ain't got nothing on some of the ideas we came up with - perishing from unrequited love for Richie Sambora at a Bon Jovi show at the Garden; hocking up a lung on the F train without even being noticed by the MTA. You get the idea.
But there was I was, faced with tubercular reality. Not Juliet but Mimi. Tiny hands frozen, standing over a white porcelain sink with the life-force spewed out before me. Not sure if I should call 911, my doctor or my mom. Or, in the typical way I handle illness, if I should just clean up and go back to bed and pretend it hadn't happened.
And then I realized that the so-called blood in the sink had the distinct appearance and characteristics of tropical fruit - some sort of cherry-berry neon effluvial quality that was nonetheless, the key to its identification. Insert jackass moment here.
Having eluded Opera Death for the time being, I pulled myself together, did what I had to do with the Basin Tub and Tile cleaner, changed into a clean t-shirt and went back to bed. Which was only fitting. One should probably go to their Opera Death in a long white ruffled nightgown, not so much a two year old t-shirt advertising a Hanukkah festival.
I've still got the cough, so just in case, I'll be sticking to pineapple flavor tonight.
Shabbat shalom, amigos.
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