death watch '09: threat alert has been downgraded from mauve to fuschia

Though medical scholars would probably have you believe that it is impossible, I do in fact feel less close to death today than I felt yesterday. Not in the overall, long-term sense, I suppose, but in the more immediate, cough-up-a-lung and keel over right here right now kind of sense.

The point is, I'm still alive, and tomorrow marks day three of being on the antibiotics that should probably give me super-sub-human-health on par with the Bionic woman for what they cost me. I'm not convinced that one of my lungs still couldn't come flying out of my throat at any minute, but we're on the mend.

For some reason this particular brush with death has gotten me thinking about my memories of the landmark childhood illnesses. Pink eye. Chicken Pox. Strep throat. Ate too much Rotel on Super Bowl Sunday and ralphed it up on the bathroom rug. Wait. Wait, that one might just be me.

I'll never forget being in kindergarten and waking up one morning with a raging case of Pink Eye. My mom took me to the doctor first thing, and the doctor did some doctor-type things and finally concluded, "Well, she's got Pink Eye."

I know what my mother said next was more intelligent than this. It was probably much more eloquent, too. But to this day when I think back on that doctor's office, all I can see is my mom giving that doctor a look (and a few choice words) that said "No shit, dummy."

Maybe I don't necessarily need her around to take care of me when I'm sick anymore, but when I think about moments like that, I have to admit -- it sure would be nice.


cheers,
elizabeth