It finally happened. Three years in, COVID finally made a visit to Honey and Rice. Their cases were thankfully mild and have pretty much run their course. But man, oh, man, does it show once again how differently men and women—husbands and wives, especially—see each other “through sickness and health.”
Here’s a recap of how late February/early March played out.
Day Zero: Rice comes home shy of midnight from an invigorating Atlanta United soccer game. His voice is raspy, and he’s coughing some. He chalks it up to the excitement of Atlanta’s win as he climbs into bed and rubs his cold limbs and torso all over Honey, trying to warm up.
Day Zero-Plus: Rice’s voice remains husky, and his cough lingers. He’s extra tired, but he reminds Honey (and himself) that he’s used to going to bed earlier than midnight, so being pooped post-game night is to be expected.
Day One: Rice asks Honey to check the expiration dates on the two COVID test boxes stored in the downstairs bathroom. He tests positive and makes an appointment with his GP. “Why?” Honey asks. “Because I’m over sixty-five years old,” he says, “and I need a prescription for Paxlovid.” Oh. He sequesters himself in the upstairs master bedroom until it’s time to go to the doc. Honey’s feeling fine but follows protocol, masking up when she drives him to the doc…when she shops for some incidental groceries…when she picks up his prescription. She moves into the guest bedroom down the hall.
Day Two: Rice continues to sequester in the dark master bedroom, where he sleeps almost nonstop and has to be roused awake and reminded to eat.
Day Three: Honey continues to push food, feeling a bit like Annie Wilkes at the master bedroom door, tray in hand, a slightly evil grin on her lips. She keeps the liquids coming and the stash of fresh fruit on the dresser replenished. She’s pleased when Rice asks for a repeat of her specialty—PB&J on wheat. It’s within the parameters of her current culinary skills and his food preferences. She no longer cooks; he now eats vegan.
Day Four: Honey is pleased Rice’s appetite is returning as he makes a few more requests. Like, “For breakfast, could you bring me a cup of Basic 4 with a half-cup of almond milk?” To clarify, Honey asks, “You want the cereal in a cup?” “No,” he says. “A bowl is fine, once you measure the cereal out with a cup.” Oh. Honey marvels at so many things, like why, in the throes of COVID, does he give a sh*t about measuring his cereal? And how, for the love of all things holy, is it possible the two of them—a modern Jack Spratt and his wife--are still married?
Day Five: Rice declares he’s read that starting tomorrow, he can move about more (with a mask for Days Six through Ten) if his symptoms have subsided. Honey tells him she’s glad. She woke up with a sinus headache and just tested positive. “Do you want me to drive you to the doc?” he asks. “We’ll see,” she says. But unless she starts to internally combust, she sees no reason. She’s been vaxed and boosted up the wazoo. Willingly. But so far she feels pretty good. Why invite potential Paxlovid side effects like an altered sense of taste, diarrhea, muscle aches, or abdominal pain? Not that Honey’s saying Rice experienced any of those. (Not her place to share, she’s been told.) Besides, she’s not over sixty-five. She fights back a smirk at that thought, opts for self-care, and passes on going for the meds.
Day Six: Honey watches Rice measure his own food as she scoops herself a bowl of ice cream before heading back to her computer. “Did you have dinner?” he asks. She nods toward her bowl—her version of self-care.
Day Seven: Rice says he enjoyed his morning breakfast, avocado toast and tomato. “That’s nice,” Honey says, pondering what she’ll have. A little later, she asks him, “If I heat up some tater tots, do you want any?” “Yes,” he says. Her heart twinges a little. A smile tickles her lips. And not an Annie Wilkes-like expression this time. It’s sweet.
In moments like this, she’s encouraged. The original Jack Spratt and his wife stuck it out until death did them part, didn’t they? Granted, it’s undocumented. Still, she’s filled with hope. She and Rice just might make it that long, too…barring their supply of tater tots not run out.
Listen, y'all need to stay healthy out there, okay? Cheers ~ J
Did you know that music might enhance how we remember our travels? I read the suggestion to anchor our travels to specific songs after I slid down an internet rabbit hole about memory recall. It got me to thinking….
Any time I hear Three Dog Night’s Joy to the World, I’m whisked back onto a bus filled with other eighth graders visiting Washington, D.C. from Saginaw, Michigan. We’d ridden through the night, and we awakened to sunshine and cherry blossoms spilling off limbs in pink and white, their scent a subtle mix of almonds and lilacs. I think I remember the worn-out expressions the chaperones wore. (They had to have been exhausted, but did I really see that back then? Or am I empathizing right now?) During the trip, I’m guessing we crammed in tours all day long (none of which I remember). The same goes for roommates. I must have had one or two, but I don’t recall who they were.
What I do remember about that trip is anchored in the music—the singing on the bus. There was another song, equally rousing but bitter in a way I didn’t understand then as well as I do now. Performed by Country Joe McDonald and the Fish, it protested the disparate draft system of the Vietnam War, which still waged on. Whether you’ve heard the song before or not, it deserves a listen—and maybe a moment to ponder. I’ve included a link to the version without the famous Fish Cheer that often got things started. (But in case little ears are near, please note the F-bomb still pops up shortly before the two-minute mark):
Oh, the memories. I loved revisiting that trip in my mind, but I had to dig deep to remember. The music helped, maybe because linear thinking doesn’t come naturally to me, the way it does to Rice. He can recall the oddest, most miniscule details without much prompting at all.
“Remember our move from Michigan to Colorado?” I ask, looking back to see myself seated behind the wheel of our Citation, where our cat, Harry, is crouched in the back seat, ears erect. We’re following Rice and our dog, Sam, in the U-Haul rental. I’m jarred by the starkness of the landscape as we cross the Nebraska state line, where a sign taunts: Welcome to Colorful Colorado.
“What parts of the move do you mean?” Rice piggybacks. Then, without waiting for my response, his gaze drifts off as his memories kick in. “I remember having to pull off the highway in Gary, Indiana in search of another U-Haul rental place.”
“What??”
“You remember,” he prods. “About four hours into the drive, the truck’s alternator light popped on.”
“Oh.” I furrow my brow, then quickly correct my expression to try to cover my tracks. “Right.”
But I don’t remember. And suddenly I’m irritated, thinking back on the hundreds of times I’ve struggled to remember things the way normal people do. Then I’m haunted by more rabbit hole research finds, ones that point out the advantages of a good memory, like better test scores, higher self-confidence, reduced anxiety and frustration, improved sleep quality, improved social interaction…. Ugh.
I grit my teeth. “God’s playing a joke on me again,” I grouse. “Why else would I feel compelled to write a travelogue about our forty-plus years together when I can’t remember shit?”
“I can help you,” Rice says. “And don’t be so hard on yourself. You know that having a bad memory has its upsides.”
“Oh, really?” I try not to roll my eyes. “How is it good that I can forget I’ve seen a movie, start to watch it, and then remember halfway through that ‘Oh, yeah,’ I’ve seen this before?”
His lips twitch. “Do you remember how it ends?”
He’s got me there. Chances are, I don’t. And even if I watch it again all the way through, I still may not remember the ending. I’ll fall asleep or just plain forget. That’s how I roll.
Then again…I bet I’ll remember the hell out of its soundtrack.
A few Januarys ago, I began to choose one word to focus on during the year ahead. It was a way to get fired up for the coming year without setting myself up for failure with lofty goals and resolutions. Several friends and I now choose WOTYs annually, and I write our words on little canvases and share them. Some of my own previous selections include Focus, Cultivate, Hope, and Lucky.
This year I’ve chosen Yes! Here’s why:
For starters, Yes! I’m still writing. Sharing that brings on a feeling of pride and commitment but also a sense of vulnerability. When I say I’m still writing, I always steel myself for a comeback like, “So, I guess you’re not published yet?” Granted, most people are more thoughtful and supportive with their responses—or they kindly refrain from responding at all. Still, making a declaration that Yes! I’m still writing opens the flood gates for fair observations. Because Yes! it can often take a loooooooong time to make things happen in this crazy industry.
Still, I say Yes!, even when sometimes it’s hard to sit down and actually do the writing itself. Psychologically hard. Rejection is part of the industry. It’s just business, but it takes a toll—whether it comes from agents or editors or readers. To continue writing demands stamina and commitment. It takes a big fat Yes!
Yet writing and telling my circle of peeps about it is not quite enough anymore. There’s a tag-along to the craft these days called social media platforrm-building, with tools like Twitter and Instagram, FaceBook, TikTok, and more. I envy folks who enjoy these tools and can use them without major gaffs, like accidentally posting an on-line to-do list that includes a trip to the gynecologist. Ugh.
The fear is real, but so is the need to get social, like it or not. Even established writers aren’t immune to posting copious Insta pics and tweets. Not to mention, as social media continues to try people’s confidence, writers are encouraged to send out independent invitations to Join My Email List. On top of everything else.
Still…I say Yes!
To clarify, for me saying Yes! means mindfully choosing the things that are important—like writing, but also family and friends—and saying Yes! to the entire package they come with, not just the parts that are easy or fun. Yes! means putting myself out there to do the things I often put off because they make me uncomfortable…or I think I can do them tomorrow. Like reaching out to old friends. Attending an event. Or maybe just making a phone call I’ve been putting off.
Yes! – reminds me I’m not done yet. That goes for my writing, but also for spending more time with family and friends and learning new things. To stretching creative muscles…to seeing new places and experiencing more adventures.
So here’s a hell, Yes! to 2023. I invite you to join me in making it special and finding new ways to show the people we love how incredibly dear they are.
My best to you and yours for the upcoming year ~ J
