The Sickie

I’m writing this as much for me as for you. I want to document a miracle.

On September 15, after a season of traveling through deer country, starting in upstate New York and continuing north through eastern Canada, then south through all the East Coast states (we doubled back and caught Vermont after Long Island), John was diagnosed with Lyme Disease.

He had six big red circles, including a row of four on one leg, so we both thought he might have been the target of a nasty spider. But no, it was more like a deer tick. He was given three weeks of doxycycline and told to take Advil if he had pain. If? The aches and soreness kept him up at night, and during the day he would crash. In very short order, I learned to plan for solo afternoons, as John snoozed away the day, recovering his strength in order to eat dinner, watch half a TV show, then crash again and call it a night.

Nevertheless, we continued to travel, even going so far as Nashville to catch the Eagles in Concert. In fact, the concert was only three days after his diagnosis, so that must have been a real effort for him.

But Lyme Disease is certainly not the miracle.

Two weeks later, he started to have pain in one side, then developed a nasty rash around his torso. Ah, I sagely diagnosed, a reaction to the medicine. I’ve seen this before! So we made another visit to another doctor. He came out of the examining room looking stunned. I pulled away from my People Magazine long enough to catch the look of shock. “What?” I said.

“Shingles,” he mouthed.

Now Shingles hurts. It is a nasty little afterthought, a virus that hides in the body after you’ve had chicken pox. When the immune system is compromised (see above), it can flare up along the nerve pathways, often traveling from one side of the spine, around the torso, and ending in the middle of the belly. Bingo.

John is classic. Ask his friends.

Two nasty things at the same time. The miracle? Wait for it, wait for it.

In all this, John has managed to keep his good humor. He crashes and burns, but apologizes for falling asleep in the middle of … whatever. Use your imagination. He makes fun of his weakness and says he’ll do the dishes, vacuum our tiny rug, wash the buggy windshield. Soon. Not now, but soon.

He’s also gotten behind the wheel of our big rig and driven upwards of three hundred miles at a stretch, then done all the set-up when we arrived. He’s trying to keep up his part of the work. And he’s doing it all with grace and good humor.

Now that’s the miracle. A sick man who makes jokes. Hallelujah.

So I’ve decided we’ll stay longer in Cape Hatteras, spending our days at this heavenly place, sitting in the sun, lying in the shade, reading, resting, watching football and movies and eating out on occasion, until he’s decidedly better.

It’s a sacrifice, but that’s the way I am.

I know. I’m a saint.

Betty