On not being prepared to “be sick”

 

by Pat Laster

 

                “I’m NEVER sick,” I often boasted, knocking on the nearest wood—or my head--especially after others went on about their troubles.

After last Saturday, I can no longer brag. At the last contest announcement—the one-thousand dollar prize from the Sybil Nash Abrams family trust—of our Poets Roundtable of Arkansas's National Poetry Day meeting--which our branch hosted--I felt a fullness in my stomach, which soon turned into knowledge that I was about to (ahem) “be sick.”

By the time I zigzagged around the poets preparing to leave and reached the bathroom’s paper-towel garbage bag … there soon was ‘way more than used paper-towel litter therein.

I’ll spare you the details even though our speaker for the day urged us to “go deep,” “take chances” while using active verbs and specifics.

I cleaned up the area as well as I could, and then headed out the back door of the hall toward the safety of my Taurus. I drove the five miles to Couchwood. My overnight guest had already left with her group for the Ozarks.

At home, I immediately turned on the firelogs, warmed my rice-filled neckpiece and stretched out on the sofa. Though wrapped in a fleecy blanket, I had chills all that restless hour.

Both phones rang, but I didn’t dare move. I figured folks were checking on me—and, sure enough, they were, for which I am grateful.

What does one who is never sick do when (s)he becomes “sick.” I thought of Pepto-Bismol, Kaopectate, and antacids.

            I beamed a flashlight into the under-the-bathroom-sink cabinet and discovered a bottle of Maalox. Aha!

Oh, dear. We’d moved to Couchwood in June of 06, and the expiration date was “12/06.” I took a dose anyway from the previously unopened bottle, and soon, the remainder of my stomach contents came up. I’ve been OK since.

 BTW, the Maalox went into the topsoil of this rocky hill. Note to self: Next time at the pharmacy, get a bottle of antacid with a far-in-the-future expiration date.

I think the episode was caused by stress and anxiety. My friends are not so sure. But researching, I find that indeed it may be so. To wit:

For a week before the meeting—a guest was overnighting—I checked off in my head all the things I had to do beforehand. I copied and folded the programs, I cleaned—slowly—each area where my guest would be, I gathered information for the memorial-to-the-poets-who-had-died and typed most of the presentation.

The final thrust on the last day included vacuuming --a hard-enough job with Mom’s old Electrolux—and finishing my speech. No time for a nap, but by the time Diane arrived, I had rested from my labors; my house was as spotless as it would ever get as long as I lived here.

We ate in, retired early, but I didn’t get to sleep until the wee hours. She said it took her six minutes to summon sleep. Next morning, we were up early, breakfasted and arrived at the meeting site early to “set up.”

A good meeting ensued: my speech was well received, catered lunch of bar-b-q was delicious, the awards of 23 contests called out and bestowed.

If it wasn’t stress and anxiety, why did the incident happen at exactly the last thing on the program?

c 2012 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press