So I've been sicker than a flea that fell into someone's coke stash. Only today, after more than two weeks, have I begun to feel somewhat human again, though sinus issues plague me still. It started at a conference in Orlando--me with all my department chairs supposed to be going to sessions and learning how to do our jobs better and I end up spending most of the time confined in the hotel room, trying to get some work done in spite of the raging pain in my throat and the blur in my brain.
That's the problem for me when I get really sick. Because I rely so heavily on my thinking apparatus--my body just sort of tags along--when my brain goes out of commission, I am essentially a useless mass of twitching, groaning flesh. And fever--with sinus pain--takes my brain offline in a serious way.
So I had about five days of high fever altogether. My body seemed to have a Gumby-like consistency. My teeth ached, an exotic new experience. My throat constricted with a fiery, knifelike pain deep down around the esophagus that made it impossible to talk. That's how I felt on the drive back from Orlando, sitting in the rear of the van like roadkill scooped off the asphalt and deposited there for the nine and a half hour ride.
As soon as we drove up to Lee University, I stumbled to my truck and drove right over to the walk-in clinic nearest my house. Get this--on that very day they had changed their hours from 8 am- 8pm to 8 am - 6 pm. It was 5:38 pm. And they would take no more patients that evening. I stood looking mournful at the admitting window, which was closed, but the attendant at her desk glanced at me and looked away. I thought of staging a death pantomime of some sort, since I couldn't talk, much less yell, but there was every chance she wouldn't see it, so I shuffled back out to the truck and headed over to the other Doc in a Box in town.
They were open, and they cheerfully took me in, gasped when they looked down my throat, gave me a butt shot and the cherished antibiotic prescription. I managed to get home by 7 pm, by which time I had the shivers so bad it was hard to keep my glasses on.
My dear wife Leslie got me some Nyquil and I tried that ghastly green stuff, but it did not live up to its billing. My nose still ran and I still coughed--the Nyquil just tried to fool my brain into thinking it wasn't really happening. I remember coming out of my stupor with a wracking cough, but taking twice as long to realize that I was in fact choking because the friggin Nyquil had short-circuited my synaptic responses.
And I dreamed strange dreams of black 3-D rectangles--kind of like the monoliths from Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey , except the monoliths just changed length and height occasionally and there was no dramatic soundtrack to go with the action. I realize it's just possible I was gaining exclusive insight into the fundamental nature of the universe and if I had not wakened I might have been on the verge of something truly amazing, but all is now lost, like the ending to Coleridge's "Kubla Kahn."
I did see two movies, like book-ends to my fevered state, Letters from Iwo Jima and Downfall. I have to say that my view of them is probably colored by the fact that each of my coughs felt as if it were about to dislodge my left eyeball. But these films are essentially the same script. The POV is from a young, naive person who steps into the maelstrom near the end of a corrupt, insular, insanely hierarchical and deluded world. Lines common to both movies go something like: "So where is General Fill-in-the-blank? Why hasn't he started his counter-attack?" "Sir, General FITB is cut off. He cannot help us." "So why haven't we heard from General Never Say Die?" "We've sent messages, sir, but nothing gets through." "Well, I guess it's all over now, isn't it? Let everyone die with honor. Let no one be taken alive by the enemy." Then there are a lot of self-inflicted shots to the head with graphic spurts of exploding blood coming out the other side. Lovely.
Both films are exercises in depression, calculated to serve as morality tales. In that last aspect, I think they are successful. But they are dreary and disturbing. In Iwo, the scene of American GIs wasting Japanese prisoners is gut-wrenching. But even worse, in Downfall, is the scene of Frau Goebbels, poisoning her five beautiful children so they won't have to live in a world without Naziism. It brought tears to my eyes watching the oldest daughter, who knew what was happening, resist her mother's attempt to kill her.
I don't think Eastwood's film deserves the buzz it has received. Normally a fan of the old cowboy's work, I don't see anything exceptional about Letters from Iwo Jima. I haven't seen the American counterpart yet, but as a stand-alone film, it's an unrelenting tragedy in the genre of Schindler's List, but not nearly as well done. But, as I say, sickness may have dampened my appreciation.
Thanks to everyone for your prayers and kind comments during my convalescence. I have now started watching "American Idol" because of Phil Stacey. His wife Kendra was one of our finest comm majors. I'd never seen the show before. Now I'm having fun predicting what Simon is going to say. There will be a blog on that strange phenomenon in the near future.
