When Pigs Fly
[Previous Rural Farmgirl, April 2009 – May 2010]
There I was, completely sprawled out on the sofa begging the gods of all things to please stop the room from spinning.
Just a few short hours before I had been leaving the Kansas City airport, feeling oh-so tired and reflecting on a truly great farmgirl weekend. It was 5:00 a.m. so even if my body was trying to tell me something, there was no way my brain was awake enough to listen to it. The first leg of my flight was a complete blur as I slept all the way to Salt Lake City. Upon landing, I had fewer than 30 minutes to get to my next gate. Wondering why I chosen flip-flops instead of running shoes, I ran to make sure I did not miss my flight to Seattle. Again, back on the plane, I propped my head against the window, and I was out cold. This was not normal behavior for me, but since it had been a whirlwind weekend, I was not shocked that I felt tired.
I was so glad to land in Seattle, back in my home state. Now the four-hour wait for the 45-minute flight into Pasco began. I found a cute little restaurant and decided to plant myself in it and work while I waited for time to pass. As I scoured the menu, it dawned on me that NOTHING sounded good to me. That, too, was not normal. I casually ordered a cup of hot tea and toast. As I sat there struggling to get some work done and reflecting on the great farmgirls I had met and the huge amount of fun I had had, I noted that I was not quite myself. My internal playback constantly interrupted by a nagging sense of restlessness, and my mind completely consumed with a hot bath and my PJs. Looking at the clock, I was glad to see that my plane home would be boarding at any time. In just a few short minutes after the plane would take off in Seattle, I would be home.
Once in Pasco greeted by, my two younger boys, Cole and Matthew who both seemed to be there under duress. My 18-year-old given the chore of retrieving me had dragged his 12-year-old little brother with him…well, everyone knows that misery loves company, and my 18-year-old wanted to “share the love.” I could tell by the look on their faces that possibly I did not look well. They greeted me with, “Uhhh…rough weekend?”
Once I made it home, I found my way to the much coveted hot bath and pajamas and then to the sofa…and that is where I would stay (mostly) for the next 72 hours.
I do not “do” sick well. There just simply is not time. However, if I have to be sick, this was the way to do it. I was SO sick that I do not remember much of it, especially early on. The chills, headache, nausea, and fever all had me begging for drugs, and I am not an allopathic kind of girl. At one point, I swear I thought to myself, I know why they call it the swine flu, as there were clearly pigs flying around my living room, adding to my already dizzy state.
I found myself both resentful and thankful that no one was there to care for me. Resentful since it seemed to me that when others in the family are sick, they cannot imagine me not being there to answer the call to their every whim, yet, grateful because the quiet was the only welcomed thing brought by this dreaded bug. That and the fact that there was no one to “actually supply” the drugs I was begging for earlier.
In truth, I actually have always loved that poster of pigs flying. It has always brought a chuckle to me, and I really love when I hear someone say, “Yeah, when pigs fly.” I am not sure why I saw pigs flying across my living room. While their movements certainly were annoying, the color of their Pepto-Bismol pink skin seemed to help in some odd sort of way.
Once the worst of the bug had left my body (with the aid of forced bodily functions, Epsom salt baths, and fever), I was thankful for the bags of organic peppermint tea that I had just purchased a few days before.
There has been a lot of discussion on the topic of swine flu. While I do not know for sure all the ends and outs of the virus, I do think that there should be some sort of survivor’s badge for those of us who make it through to the other side…maybe a pink flying pig.