When I finish writing this column I vow to wipe down the keyboard, the desk and the arms of the chair I was sitting in — twice.
I have not been feeling all that well since Thursday morning. Stuffy nose, sore throat, a few body aches and a blistering headache kept at bay with regular doses of ibuprofen.
Of course, it could simply be a sinus infection, which is as routine for me this time of year as a hunters breakfast is for others.
But as my symptoms have progressed these past 48 hours, I have found few people interested in spending time with me.
I’m trying hard not to take offense.
I dutifully cough and sneeze into my sleeve, actually more often my bare arm because I’m roasting hot much of the time. I’m not sure whether that’s as good as sneezing into a sweater the way they demonstrate on TV.
I’m convinced I most likely have nothing more than a tiresome sinus infection, but I came to realize at the first sniffle that I was not to be walking around in public.
There are evil looks and disgusted sighs of disapproval toward anyone who has the audacity to sneeze or cough in public.
“Why aren’t you home, you evil germ-spreading petri dish? How dare you?”
That’s what those looks say.
My grandmother died this week. She was 97. She was a lovely and gracious woman who was married to her husband for 70 years, raised two wonderful children into responsible adulthood, worked hard each day of her career for the U.S. Postal Service and enjoyed a joyful retirement with her husband.
She made the best brownies I’ve ever tasted. She was a petite woman and quite refined, but she could put away a decent-size prime rib any day of the week, and she snored.
She hadn’t had much of a life for the past couple of years and most of the grieving had already been done by her family. She was lost quite awhile ago, and when she actually died Wednesday morning it brought sadness, yes, but also some relief and peace.
Her funeral was Friday, and by Thursday afternoon as I snuffled my way through family phone calls, they made it quite clear that there really was no need for me to attend.
Early Friday morning, as my kids got ready for school and my husband for work, I tried to take stock of my health.
My son took one look at me and insisted that if I did attend the funeral, I should do so wearing one of those awful paper surgical masks.
I considered it.
I still think all I have is a nasty sinus infection, but if it happens to be the swine flu I certainly would not want to risk spreading it to others who might suffer more severely than I.
So I stayed home in bed and made sure my daughter wore to the funeral the necklace she had inherited from her great-grandmother.
“Your grandmother will notice that,” I told her.
My very dedicated husband took our kids and spent the whole afternoon with my family without me to run interference.
I have no idea and probably will never know whether I have the dreaded H1N1, but it was sort of nice to know that I could send off my husband and kids to pay tribute to my grandmother and that when they come back home they will heat up a can of chicken noodle soup for me and pour me some ice cold ginger ale.
I think Arlene Sawyer would tell me that I’d done a pretty decent job with my crew and that it was perfectly OK that I wasn’t at her funeral, that perhaps I had done the noble thing.
And if I’m lucky I’ll find out whom she left her brownie recipe with.