Housewife down. It’s officially day 3 of the flu and the future seems meek. My chest and head are a pressure cooker of phlegm, two golf balls are lodged in my throat, my nose is reminiscent of Niagara Falls, fevers come and go, my lungs are about to collapse from incessant coughing and sneezing and my body feels like it has been run over by a Mack 10 truck. I am in hell.
Mirka is in a tailspin playing nurse and mauling over any innocent bystander that gets in her way. She is in a state of frenzy, decontaminating the house and changing my socks every 30 minutes. Apparently, sock changes decrease the risk factors of flu complications. Convinced that this specific flu (she is still not sure it’s not Zika) is due to a weakened immune system, a direct result of my eating habits (or a mosquito), I have been condemned to chicken soup and beef consume for the past 3 days. She has vetoed all requests for a warm latte, because lactose free milk thickens congestion. She is pretty much ready to push a Vick’s vapor rub IV in me.
And then there is her version of flu medication. The Holy Grail of remedies. It’s a repugnant concotion of red onions, passion fruit, radish, ginger, honey, lemon, and cinammon. Like the bully she is, she just sits there, intimidating and oppressing the sick, staring at me until I have atleast half a cup. I simply do not have anything left in me to stand up for myself. I have succumb to her tyranny. I surrender.
I don’t know what is worse Mirka nursing me to health, Donald Trump being GOP candidate, or death.