Thirty Eight Point One
Posted by Dirck on 27 May, 2014
Unless referring to the pounds per square inch of atmospheric pressure one is experiencing, or the size of the hole in centimeters one had just discovered is newly made in one’s body, 38.1 is not a big number. And yet, just before Sunday night became Monday morning, I found it was a number with profound ramifications.
It was, it turned out, my internal temperature. In Celcius degrees, because that’s how we rôle here in Canada.
The majority of the world, used to metric, will be shaking their heads at this point, but I’ll do the conversion for those still labouring in the Fahrenheit mines– that’s not quite 101°. Not great, from a health standpoint, but certainly not life threatening. And yet, I crept out of bed, quivering and with the sense that the skin on my head had been replaced with over-roasted gila monsters. I wished I were drenched in sweat.
The next six hours were spent sitting up in an armchair, wishing for sleep, an effective febrifuge, and someone else to bring me more juice, all the while having my intelligence subtly insulted by Hollywood and its herald, Netflix. Shortly after dawn, I put on a brave face so as to not alarm my son, drank more juice while he was made ready for school, and then collapsed into a heap that eventually became a sleeping human. At some point, I remembered how to sweat.
I’m fine today. A little hoarse, but otherwise asymptomatic, and absolutely without notion of where the infection came from. If it was the same thing that made my son sneeze a few times last week, then either my immune system is in extremely poor shape or he was meant for delivery in Sparta (I suspect the latter, given some of his recent Feats of Strength, like “push the shopping cart at a fast walking pace while Daddy clings to the front acting as a brake”).
And the reason I share all this is to explain my absence yesterday. I was, in most senses of the phrase, out of it. It wasn’t until I was leaving for work this morning that I even noticed yesterday’s mail had included an expected client’s pen. Good thing, too– if I had seen it yesterday, I might given into the urge to handle a pre-celluloid pen while in an incompetent state. What a chilling thought!
(ed. note: [sic] to “rôle” because I’m still giddy enough to think that’s either clever or funny)