My Twilight Zone

I spent most of last week week in bed, felled by a nasty virus that doctors initially thought might be meningitis, sinusitis, or the rockin’ pneumonia and the boogie-woogie flu. But after a battery of tests, including a spinal tap and cat scan, I was told to ride it out and my massive headache—the kind where I wanted our dog to shoot me—loss of appetite, and overwhelming sense of malaise would pass someday.

Because my head ached so badly, piercing pain behind the eyes and across my forehead, I was unable to read or even remain upright. Most of the time I was just curled in a semi-fetal position on the couch, drool forming on the edge of my mouth, as the dog nipped at my socks.

But I did manage to pass some of the time when I wasn’t asleep or wishing I was dead by watching daytime TV. I never thought American civilization was in such dire straits until I ingested an overdose of afternoon TV. It’s a veritable nightmare.

Almost everything I watched was pure and unentertaining crap. I must admit up front that we don’t have cable, so we rely on a few local stations and several more quirky ones that are pulled in by our HDTV.

One thing I found on the tube is a plethora of judge shows. There was this one guy, I think Judge Alex, who spent most of the show counseling a young woman, who’s already had an army of abusive boyfriends, to make better choices. Uh, duh, no shit, buddy; where’d you get your law degree? The 24-year old female was suing her ex-boyfriend for borrowing her car when they were together, crashing it, and then refusing to pay for any damages.

On Maury Povich, who was actually trained as a real journalist, he did a show about incredibly obese toddlers. Being the father of a toddler, albeit a lean one, I tuned in for a few moments. He featured one three-year-old boy who weighs 114 lbs, which is 80 lbs above normal. Heck, that kid weighs 40 lbs more than Miguel, who is 11. He is only 45 lbs lighter than I am, and I am 50.

Then there was this show hosted by a guy I’d never heard of, Steve Wilko. On it, a woman accused a male relative of either killing her daughter or hiring someone to do so. She was crying and had to be restrained by members of Wilko’s crew as she shouted in a thick Southern accent, “Did you kill my baby? Did you have someone kill my young-un?”

“No,” he said defiantly. “I did not. She was my young-un too.”

I didn’t tune in long enough to ascertain what type of kinship relationship the accused and the dead girl shared.

As I watched these shows and one or two others, I kept thinking two things: one, why would people who may have legitimate legal grievances choose to air their cases in such a tawdry fashion? OK, I know the answer to this one already. And, two, give me Judge Wapner. The original People’s Court was the best. Wapner delivered judgments that were often swift and painful, but occasionally laced with humor and pathos. And he never took bullshit from anyone or doled it out in return. He seemed the real deal; the rest of these bozos are pretenders to a crown they will never wear and to a thrown they will never ascend.

The only daytime show I am sorry I missed was Ellen. I watched the advertisement for her show, but I must’ve been sleeping when it actually came on. Ellen features what she calls her bathroom concert series, in which she sings with a famous crooner in a bathroom or shower. That afternoon she was slated to sing I Kissed A Girl with Katy Perry. Having a chance to hear a great singer, a great comedienne, and their duet with a great song might’ve made my day. And it would’ve been funny.

In the end, the only TV I found comforting during my convalescence was my DVD collection of the 2004 American League baseball championships, when the Red Sox overtook the Yankees after a three-games-to-none deficit and launched the greatest miracle turnaround in playoff baseball history, culminating in Boston’s first World Series title in 86 years. Watching the exciting comeback games when the Red Sox were on the brink and the subsequent World Series celebrations brought many tears to my eyes and maybe, just maybe, helped my ailing body heal a tad faster.

As for most of daytime TV, I will leave the final words to jazz singer and proto-hip-hop artist Gil Scott-Heron: “The revolution will not be televised.”

Thanks goodness.

S-s-s-sick

I rolled over and asked Verna how she was feeling.

“Don’t talk to me,” she mumbled, “I’m sick.”

Maya, nestled between us on the bed, woke up and said, “Don’t talk to me Daddy; I’m sick.”

Life imitates life.

Verna came down with some devastating virus the second day into the New Year. Kaiser said it was RSV, which means no fever, no flu, but Verna still feels like crap: pounding headache, raw and painful sore throat, extreme desire to be shot like a rabid dog.

Maya has a slight fever and general malaise, but overall she’s been fine. That hasn’t stopped her, though, from telling me now several times not to talk to her. And also having her mimic her mother’s coughs, where she opens her mouth and emits a low-key machine gun sound. The girl has a flair for drama and excess already.

Where did that come from?

Being sick sucks. It might’ve been different for Verna if she hadn’t survived cancer. But when this virus hit I know that Verna was thinking: “Shit, my body has betrayed me yet again.”

She hasn’t felt much better for a week. A woman I know casually from the park, who happens to be a nurse, said she and her daughter had the virus, and it often lasts for 4-5 weeks. Weeks?

Fortunately for Verna in terms of having help and unfortunately in terms of our finances, I started only a part time job this week, Wednesday-Friday. So I was able to take Miguel to school and pick him up on Monday and Tuesday. And also play with Maya before her nap. On Tuesday she and I went to the library where we got five books, one of which she seems to love most, Click Clack Quackity Quack. She’s been repeating that phrase a lot since then.

Since my job is only part time, I am also busy on Mondays and Tuesdays with freelance writing assignments, finding additional work, and figuring out the meaning of life. But one of my other priorities now is just picking up the slack so Verna can remain camped out on the couch.

So what if the kids get chocolate ice cream for dinner with gummy bears as an appetizer? There must’ve been at least two or three minor food groups in those selections. OK, just kidding. I made wholesome meals: pasta with broccoli, veggie stir-fry with tofu over brown rice, organic macaroni and cheese with tofu hot dogs. Sounds yummy, eh?

Last night Verna decided to use a folk remedy suggested by our witch, er, friend, Amanda, a native of Transylvania, er, England. She told Verna to rub Vicks on her feet before bed and then cover them with socks. Supposedly this will cure Verna of her hacking cough that threatens to explode one or both of her lungs.

Vicks vapo-rub wafting in the living room brought me back to me childhood when my mother rubbed the goop on my chest and covered it with a small towel so it wouldn’t get on my pajamas. The powerful aroma of Vicks means to me childhood, sickness, warmth, being nurtured back to health by my mother.

When I got up this morning to take the dog for a walk Verna was sleeping soundly. I woke her, though, because I had to leave for work and she wanted to make breakfast for Miguel.

“Did the Vicks work?”

“I was fine until three a.m.,” she said. “Then I started coughing and couldn’t stop for hours. I’d just fallen back to sleep.”

Maya would be up soon, we knew, mouth wide open, coughing and telling me not to speak with her.