Kage Baker – I’ve got no obvious link between Kage, my perpetual background theme, and what I’m whinging about today. Maybe the hope that she would have indulged me in my feeling like road kill (as I do), and tiptoed round my groaning self, and brought me soda crackers and cool water. The rest of you Dear Readers must be getting tired of my being sick – God He knows I am.
I have healed like a superhero from my surgery; the incision is completely closed, and judging from the paucity of twinges from the inside, that’s healing well too. The rest of the family had a horrendous cold sweep through – even the cats were sneezing – which I shrugged off with ease. But third time pays for all, as the old saying goes, and I have fallen prey to a plain fit of gastritis.
My stomach hurts, I’m feverish, and I’m fighting off D-Day waves of recurring nausea and heartburn. I want to be up and doing nifty useful and creative things, but once I achieve a vertical position all I can do is concentrate on is not throwing up. Life is yucky today.
It’s amazing how relatively brave and determined one can be in the face of big, scary ailments, only to revert to a peevish 5-year old when afflicted with a tummy-ache. I want Kage to read to me. I want ginger ale with a bendy straw. I want the special old cut-work and embroidered pillow cases Mamma used to give us (once she was sure we wouldn’t throw up on them) to aid our recoveries. I want a giant box of crayons, a fresh pad of construction paper and an empty Quaker Oatmeal box to turn into a cylindrical castle or space ship … I want fudgesickles and apple sauce and butterscotch pudding.
To tell you the truth, though, I’m not sure these old talismans have retained their magic, here on the edge of my sixth decade. They all worked well enough when I trotted them out desperately for Kage – but Kage was not fixed in time like most people, and possessed the magical ability to imbue her surroundings with the ambiance of vanished times. In my case, the bendy straw would promptly suck flat, the pudding would be sugar-free, and the crayons would be lacking all the old, old colours in favour of modern crap like Banana Mania, Fuzzy Wuzzy and Screamin’ Green.
So I’m going to go to sleep. Sleeping through this will be nearly as good as not having it at all. Maybe I’ll dream about Kage, and the days when illness could be ameliorated by crisp sheets and a brand new crayon sharpener.
That would be nice.