Come On Out

This is Charley in his blanket. It's a red stadium blanket that once belonged to my grandmother, Florence McQuiston. In the morning Charley comes down the hallway with the blanket over his head. He then plops his rear end onto Brad's chair. "Find me Daddy," he says. 

What he wants is for Brad to open the front door and say, "Charley where are you?"

Charley sits under the blanket making not a sound.

Brad then runs around the room acting like he can't find him. "Charley, Charley, I can't find Charley. Come out, come out, wherever you are."

The blanket then gets flung off his head, and with a big wide grin, he says, "Here I are, Daddy. See?" And then he tackles Brad. And Brad braces for impact.

At 23 years old, Charley still plays. It's one of the things I love about him the most. He reminds us in the midst of everyday life that play is important. He works at his play, thinking up ways to play tricks on us, ways to get a good belly laugh. Like when he grabs Brad's feet and tickles them until Brad is screaming for mercy (he's left my feet alone since I hurt my leg - I guess there are some perks to a broken bone after all). But there is no mercy. It's a matter of getting the best yell out of Brad. Old Yeller, anyone?

On those days when Brad is quiet, pensive, or too tired to play (rare, I know), Charley shrugs his shoulders. "Weller boke" (yeller's broke), he says, which means he retreats to his room to plot. To think up something else that can get at Brad. You can't buy entertainment like that.

Did we know we'd signed up for this 23 years ago? Probably not. Did we know we'd wake up to find the dining room table set with our wedding china on those mornings when he couldn't sleep? Probably not. Did we know he would hide our car keys? Probably not. And had we had known, would we have gotten in line? The only answer to that is, yes.

23 years ago today, a 20 year old college student walked into an emergency room and gave birth to the rest of our lives.

Other 23 year olds are serving their country. Getting an education. Working. Getting married. 

Where won't you find most 23 year olds? You sure won't find them hiding underneath a stadium blanket. Or playing with their Daddy. 

23 years ago today, we were looking. He was waiting. We wanted to be parents. He needed a home.

We are all searching. Looking for that one thing. That thing that gives us a reason to get out of bed in the morning. That thing that wraps itself around us. That thing that hugs us when we can't hug ourselves. That thing that turns life on its head, making us see the world in a different way. That thing that calls us out of ourselves. 

Amy Grant sings my favorite song, "Out in the Open."

         Come on out come on out 
         Come on out come on out 
         Out in the open 
         Come on out come on out 
         Come on out come on out 
         Into the light 
         There is no jury 
         There is no judge 
         Ready and waiting 
         Are the steady arms of love 


Some of us find it sooner than others. 

Brad and I found it 23 years ago. Wrapped in a baby blanket. 

Do What You Love

       

Charley and MissyKat in 2010

         In 2010, I went back to school. Brad said it best. "It's your turn, Sherry. Do what you love."

        So I filled out the student loan applications, made a joke about how, no, I wouldn't have to worry about paying it back because I'd be 95 before I ever finished my Masters. I then packed my suitcase, drove to Louisville, checked in at the Brown Hotel, and wondered what I was doing there. 

      I looked around. What was I doing in company like that? These were writers, after all. People who had confidence in themselves, in their writing, and were just there to hone their craft. I had never thought of myself as a writer, more like someone who likes to write. Still, I was there to learn. To write.

        During my first session, I was so discouraged that I almost quit. It was a session on how to write a short critical essay. The faculty member stood on stage, explaining the beauty of,“A Death in the Woods," by Sherwood Anderson. She asked questions of the students. And I, who had forgotten the duck tape for my big fat mouth, blurted something out. It was wrong. So wrong. And she let me know it, as she smirked and openly used me as an example of how NOT to write a short critical essay.

        I wanted to crawl under the nearest desk and die. I wanted to quit. I wanted to throw up all over her shoes. As I sat there, my cheeks burning, my eyes came to rest on a picture of Charley. I'd taped it to the front of my binder, as a reminder of what I was doing there. I was there to learn. To do what I love. To write.

        I was there to write about how I'd been unable to have a child of my own. How I'd had an ovarian cyst the size of a cantaloupe, leaving me with half an ovary to work with, and a myriad of DNCs, anemia, and a slim chance of pregnancy. How I'd stood by and watched my friends give birth, and when I'd realized I couldn't, I'd buried myself in work.

        I was there to write about how my husband contacted an adoption agency behind my back, and how my protest of adoption was short-lived, and thank God for that. Thank God for the birth mother who breathed life into me the minute he was placed in my arms.

        I was there to write about how well-meaning friends of my mother called asking if we knew what we were doing, and how we answered, "No," and how no child comes with instruction papers, not even special needs kids, and how it didn't matter because we were adopting him anyway, but thanks for calling.

        I was there to write about that face. Those ocean-blue crescent moon-shaped eyes, those turned up lips, the innocence that looks right through you, and the surrender to everything that is good and precious.

        I was there to write about heart. That heart that unconditionally wraps itself around you like a blanket, warming you like the sun, the son, the one who loves you no matter what. No matter how much money you make, no matter how beautiful, or skinny, or perfect, or not.

        I was there to write about how life can't get any sweeter because he fills you up with the honey of laughter, his zest for life, and gratitude for every minute of every day.

        Life with Charley is a learning curve. He challenges us, confuses us, inspires us. He gives without reserve, demanding that we be better people.

        Because of him, life is better than I ever thought it could be.

        In 1990, Charley took his first breath of life.

        In 2010, I signed up to write it. To learn. To put pen to paper and bring him to life on the page.

        He celebrates his 23rd birthday this weekend. 23 years of bringing me to life.

        In 2010, Brad said, "It's your turn, Sherry. Do what you love."

        To that I say - it's been my turn.

        I've been doing what I love, for 23 years.

Muckshuck

Last night was our first outing as a family since I was injured in March. It's been a long time coming. We met some of our church members at an Irish pub in downtown Knoxville. 

Charley gobbled down a cheeseburger (and I don't mean a little one), some French fries, and polished off two Dr. peppers (no ice, of course), and then did some rocking down to some fantastic fiddle and guitar music by some of the locals. It was the most fun we've had in over six months. 

On the way home Charley said, "Muckshuck."

"You want a what?"

"Muckshuck."

Brad and I looked at each other.  I know we haven't been out in a while, but geeze, he just ate his way through the pub. We both shook our heads. Like, sure, we've just spent X # of $ on the three of us, now he wants to get a milkshake.

"Ain't no way, Bub," Brad said. 

He turned up the volume. Maybe we hadn't heard him. "MUCKSHUCK."

"Shouting at me is NOT going to get you a milkshake," I shouted.

Well, that did it. Charley leaned forward in his seat and with a defiant flick of the wrist pointed at the radio. "MUCKSHUCK!"

Oh. Lord. "You mean music?"

Shoved a Beauty and the Beast CD at me.  "Yeah. Muckshuck."

"Would that be chocolate or vanilla?"

"Mo-om."

"Well, why didn't you say so?"

Thing is, he DID say so. With his own special brand of the tangled tongue, he all but spelled it out. It wasn't his fault that it took us three times to get it. I have to give him credit though, he was mighty patient with us and just kept repeating himself, until finally, it was too much and the CD provided the visual we needed.

There was only one thing to do. We played that CD, and all three of us sang at the top of our lungs, all the way home. It made up for us thinking he wanted a MUCKSHUCK.

It happens to all of us, tangled tongue or not. Someone, somewhere, hears us say something, and misinterprets what we say. 

Just because we think someone is listening doesn't mean they are. And just because they shake their heads up and down doesn't mean they get it. At least not always.

How easy is it to be misunderstood? To misunderstand? 

Thanks Son, for the reminder.

Damaged Goods?

I posted a comment earlier today. Here's the link:

https://www.facebook.com/sherry.mccaulley.palmer.71/posts/10201916949027640I 

The thing is, someone had the audacity to look at my baby in his carrier and say, "But he's damaged."

Of course I was shocked. I never dreamed that a member of the church Brad served (we were in New Orleans at the time), could look at an innocent baby and refer to him as damaged. 

Brad and I hadn't made a big deal out of the fact that the baby we were adopting had Down Syndrome. As far as we were concerned, he was just a baby. We wanted no special treatment, or kudos, or anything different. We simply wanted to be parents. That's all.

We didn't seek to adopt a special needs child. We didn't wake up one morning and say, "Lets go get us a baby with Down syndrome." It sort of fell into our laps. It's one of those things that just happens. We had questions, of course. Who wouldn't? But otherwise, Charley was just a baby.

He had this way of looking right through me. His eyes were intense, almost as if to say, "We'll, you got me, now do something about me." 

As a new mother, I thought he was the cutest baby I'd ever seen. So when Mary Louise said, "But he's damaged," I gasped. 

"You're kidding, right? How can you call any baby damaged? He's a child of God, just like you. Just like me." 

She huffed out of the office. 

I looked at the baby. His sweet face, his innocence. His beauty. 

Damaged? 

A friend of mine reminded me this morning after reading my post that we are all damaged goods, saved by the grace of God. 

Yesterday, Charley came out of his bedroom to ask me about his birthday party. "My birdday comin'?" He said.

"Yes Son, your birthday's comin'!" I assured him that we would not forget. We wouldn't forget his party, or his presents, or his cake with candles. 

"Don't worry, honey, we will remember." 

How could we forget? His face. His grin. His funniness. His laughter. His wholeness. 

It's weird, I know, but the comment that woman made so many years ago has stuck with me. Not because of the negative, but because of the reminder. It reminds me every day of how lucky I am. How blessed. How whole. How many years I've had love because of him. 

Damaged? 

I don't think so. Do you?

The Big Dig

This morning I asked Charley if he wanted to go an an archeological dig. He said, "Yeah!"

I said, "Do you know what that is?"

He said, "Yeah."

I said, "What?"

He said, "I no know."

I said, "It's when you dig for remains. Dinosaur bones. Buried treasure."

He stood in front of me.

"We'll, do you know of anywhere we might start digging?"

"No."

"That's what I thought you'd say, Son. How about we start beside the chair?"

We have a large, obnoxious red chair in our living room. That's where things get stashed when we want to hide them, or when we want to lose them. (Ordinarily, I would look myself, but since I broke my leg and I'm still on the walker, it's a little hard to manipulate myself into tight spaces like that).

"Let's look there for the yarn you dumped out of my brown tote bag when you needed something to carry your swimsuit to and from the Center."

He swallowed hard. "Oops'" he said.

"I am looking for the other ball of yarn that goes to the sock I finished knitting last night. As I recall, it was in that tote bag." 

I held up the sock. "See? This is what you are looking for."

Charley did a sort of nose-dive beside the chair.

He held up a bag with yarn. I looked through it.

"Sorry, look again." I said.

Next, he held up some separate yarns. I put them each into another bag. "No, keep looking."

Another bag of yarn. Another ball. Another bag. More wadded yarn. All went into the same bag. "This time it's all going to stay in the bag, right?"

"Right."

About 10 minutes into the dig, he said, "I tired, Mom."

"Keep digging," I said. He grumbled.

"We'll, if you hadn't dumped my yarn out you wouldn't be working up a sweat."

Finally, he had a hit. "Aha!" 

He held up a partially knitted sock.

"That's it!" I said. "I started knitting it last year but it was too big." I would have unravel it, but so what. At least I could re-knit it.

He handed it to me and I smelled it. "That's funny, it doesn't smell like bologna," I said.

I wasn't sure if he would remember or not, but he used to hide his bologna sandwiches in my knitting when he was little. I'm not sure why, but he always did that when he was mad at me.

"You silly homan" (woman) he said.

"So. What do you think, Hoss? Did you work up an appetite?"

"Yeah," he said.

"I've got some bread and bologna in the fridge. You want a sandwich?"

He put his hands on his hips.

"Or, I could fry up some yarn."

"Stop it, Mom."

"Just teasing."

"I know," he said.

"You know, Son, you could find all kinds of great stuff if you'd ever clean that room of yours."

"No, not."

"You never know, you might find Fred Flinstone."

"Ha, ha."

He headed To his room and  shut the door behind him. "Guys, Mom cwazy." He was talking to his toys or his DVDs, I'm not sure which.

"I heard that," I yelled.

Truth be known though, I was relieved that he hadn't dumped my bag of yarn in his room.

By the time he'd have found it, the thing would have become a fossil. 

The Visit

Charley was with me when I fell. In an instant he went from a four-year-old maturity level (following me around the house wanting me to clean his DVDs) to a twenty-two-year-old man consumed with worry about his mother.

“Mom, okay?” he said, squatting, looking down at me, his lips quivering, trying not to cry.

“We’re in for a long day,” I said, between my screams.

And it was.

It’s the pits being separated from family. Not just for me, but for everyone. In the mornings Brad calls around seven o’clock. Sometimes Charley won’t get out of bed (a sure sign that all is not right with his world).

Brad puts us on the speakerphone.

“Charley, Mama’s on the phone.”

This usually gets him to open his eyes.

“Hi Mom.”

“Hi Charley, you up yet?”

“Umost (almost),” he says. “Mommy, I miss you.”

“I know you do, honey. I miss you too. Call me sometime today on your cell phone, and come see me tonight, okay?”

“Ok, Mom. Love you.”

“Love you too, Charley. I’m so proud of you for helping Daddy.”

“Kanks.”

“I can’t wait to see you tonight.”

“Me too.”

Charley’s been a rock through this whole ordeal. He comes to see me every day for about an hour.

When he gets here his priorities fall in this order:

1.)  Fling open the door, followed by an announcement. “It’s me, Charley Palmer, your son.”

2.)  Dump whatever he’s carrying onto the bed (that’s where he will veg out for however long he’s here.)

3.)  If he’s lucky enough to get here close to mealtime, he looks on my tray to see if there’s anything for him (scrambled eggs, Salisbury steak, tater tots, stuff like that).

4.)  Kiss me on the cheek

5.)  Ask for the TV remote (this means he gets to watch anything he wants while Brad and I visit).

About an hour into visit he says, “Daddy, go home now?” It’s hard to let him go, it seems like he just got here, but he knows when he’s had enough so it’s best to say our goodbyes.

On his way out he says to the nurses aides, “Take good care my Mom.”

They assure him that they will.

Most times before he leaves he sits down next to my leg or bends over and pats it. Then he kisses it.

“All butter now?” he says.

How could it not be?

To Sleep or Not to Sleep

Gizmo in the sink!

My husband is a human alarm clock. It doesn’t matter how much sleep he’s had or not had, he is up every morning and in the shower by 5:00. He’s quiet so I can sleep because he knows I’ve been up several times during the night keeping an eye on Mr. Insomnia (Charley), who often roams the floor while the rest of the world is sleeping (he has no concept of time, only that either the sun is out or it’s dark). 

Sometimes he lands on the couch with all the lights on, but most times he sits on his bed watching his TV pausing only to make his occasional trek to the refrigerator to swipe the milk or to see what’s in there, as if anything has changed.

Living with an insomniac has become a way of life for me, and it’s no big deal to have to get up, go to his room and tell him to turn the volume down on his TV or his radio.

This morning, Brad slept a little longer than usual and I was the one up at 5:00. Charley was asleep. I headed to the little girls room and thought about writing for a couple of hours while it was quiet, which is a rarity in our house. 

Call me an undisciplined writer if you want, but back to bed I went. I have to admit that I tossed and turned, trying to turn off my brain so I could fall back asleep.

But just as my eyes finally shut and the sand man came calling, I heard a familiar sound. It was Gizmo (our cat). Not now, Gizmo. At first I dismissed it. Perhaps it was Charley’s television. Or, maybe not. Just go away and let me sleep. Or, not, because he turned up the volume. “Meow. Me-ow. MEOW.” Like, “Help! Help!” My feet hit the floor and back to the bathroom I went.

“Come on, Gizmo,” I said, and started to open the bathroom door. And that would have been the end of that, except for one thing. Gizmo had managed to reach down under the sink and open the drawer, blocking the door, which left no wiggle room – half an inch at the most. Gizmo was trapped.

Back to the bedroom I went, to get Mr. Alarm Clock. “He must have followed you into the bathroom,” Brad said, slamming his body into the door. 

Plan B. Get the backscratcher. Maybe we could use it to close the drawer. New problem: not enough room to insert the stick and no leverage. 

Plan C. Grab a coat hanger and twist it to make a hook. New problem: Brad twisted the hook but it broke off in his hand. 

Plan C, continued. Get another coat hanger, only, this time don’t twist the top off. Bend it, turn the hook just so, and voila, you’re everybody’s hero. Except for one thing; it didn’t work. 

Plan D. Fuss at each other.

“If you had looked behind you, you’d have seen the cat.”

“If you hadn’t put Charley’s medicine in the bathroom cabinet, we wouldn’t be in such a frenzy to get them out.” (Had we forgotten about Gizmo?).

“If you…”

Gizmo chimed in, “Meow.”

Plan E. Stick a knitting needle through the hole in the lock on the door. Somehow Brad was able to slide the drawer closed and Gizmo went flying into the hallway and ran off.

Well, we were both up, so let the coffee begin.

Meanwhile, Mr. Insomnia was busy cutting Z’s.

A Little Extra Oomph

Charley and Miss Gerry

It’s Monday night, and I’m struggling with writing. All writers will tell you they sometimes stare at the blank page for what seems like forever, and that’s what I’m doing. Or, at least that’s what I was doing, until I received a text about ten minutes ago.

     Charley’s an easy subject for the most part. With his shenanigans, his laugh, and what we call his bullheaded chromosome, he’s anything but blank. But when he’s gone my oomph goes with him.

     You see, Sunday he boarded a bus and headed to the winter games of the Special Olympics in Gatlinburg. But back to the text – oh how I needed it, because there, on my cell phone was a picture of him, standing on the ski slopes with his teacher, Miss Gerry.

      
     He’s temporarily ditched the grey muscle-man shirt he lives in and is sporting a red hooded sweatshirt like the rest of the team.

      
     He’s wearing brand new jeans that bend in all the right places when he unleashes his dance moves that make him look cool on the dance floor. He’s put on aftershave to give him some oomph, even though he didn’t shave before he left. But most of all, he’s wearing a grin and a twinkle in his eye.

     He’s staying in a hotel room and partying the night away. He’s probably meeting a girl but will most likely forget to get her phone number and will arrive home expecting that we will magically know how to call the girl he now refers to as his “Purty.”

      
     It’s all because of Special Olympics, created by Eunice Kennedy Shriver in her back yard in the late 1950’s and early 1960’s so that her sister Rosemary would have a place to play. I wonder if she knew that somewhere in Gatlinburg nearly 63 years later, a man with intellectual challenges would be having the time of his life because someone saw past disabilities into the core of abilities.

     Someone envisioned a better way of life for people like my Charley. Someone looked around, counted her blessings, and showered others with opportunities. Because of Eunice Kennedy Shriver, he is running, lacing up a pair of ice skates, and hanging onto the handlebars of the walker-like support device that steadies him so he won’t land on his backside. But so what if he does? He’ll think of himself as a winner because he had the courage to put one foot in front of the other, and try.

     
     Fascinating, how a traditional team practices until they are ready for the big game. Only a select few get to run out onto the field to the roar of a thundering crowd. Over and over, they practice their moves; fine tuning their technique that will make them legends in their arenas.

     Special Olympics practices too. They practice patience, support, respect, encouragement. Somewhere in Gatlinburg, there are teachers and coaches who have taken time out of their personal lives to make the Special Olympics a reality for someone else. While their own families are at home, these individuals provide hands-on assistance to the participants, so that life can have a little more meaning. No one makes them do this; they do it out of love for their students, so they can be included. So they can have their moment. Their thundering crowd. Their arena. A little extra oomph.

     If you know of a teacher or coach who has given so much of themselves for these special athletes, take a moment won’t you, to thank them on behalf of all Special Olympians everywhere.

     Tell them Charley sent you.

Charley and his buddy, Mike Sowards 

           

            

The Dream Team

          

         The last time I saw Charley compete in Special Olympics, he was standing in the middle of a volleyball court crying. Not because he didn’t win. Everyone’s a winner at the Special Olympics. It’s about standing shoulder to shoulder with your fellow teammates, and mostly, having fun.

           

He was excited that day, putting on his official Special Olympics T-shirt, and he would have had a good time too, if I hadn’t fouled things up.

I can’t always go to his Special Olympics events, but that morning he put his arm around me and said, “Mom, you comin’?”

            I started to blurt, “I can’t. I have to work.” But the fact is, I didn’t have to work that day, so, Brad and I were there to cheer him on.

As we entered the gym he came running up to us. “Guys, dis my Daddy, dis my Mom,” he grinned and pointed us out to anyone who would listen. I don’t know who was prouder, him or us.

            Brad and I made our way to the bleachers and sat down, when moments later one of the coaches suggested we move.

“You can’t sit here,” she said, “Families sit in the upper level out of harm’s way.”

Even Brad pleaded with me to move to a safer seat, “Let’s move to the no kill zone,” he said.

But I had picked my spot and wasn’t about to budge. “I can see better here,” I insisted, when, five, four, three, two, one. BLAM. A volleyball right in the kisser. After that, the only things I was seeing were stars.

My face was bleeding, my nose was smashed, and my lip was cut. I tried not to cry as Brad escorted me to the hallway and helped me find the ladies room where I wiped my face with a wet paper towel and collected myself.  I considered leaving and going home. I couldn’t see the game anyway; my glasses were a twisted mess. Besides, I didn’t want to embarrass Charley any more than I already had. But Charley wouldn’t understand if he looked up and we weren’t there, so we went back to the gym.

            As I opened the door I expected to see a volleyball game in progress. Instead, what I saw was something I’ll never forget. There, in the middle of the floor, beside the volleyball net, was my son, surrounded by not only his team, but the opponents as well. He was crying, and his buddies had turned their attention from their own moment of glory to make sure Charley was okay.

I walked over to him and he threw his arms around me and cried some more. I assured him that I was okay, his teammates slapped him high-fives, the excitement returned, and the game resumed.

            I learned several things that day. First, if you are going to bend the rules, you might end up being the one who’s bent. Even Moms are supposed to respect boundaries. Including me.

Second, there’s a reason they call it Special Olympics.  It’s called sportsmanship and there’s so much more to it than beating the other guy. It’s all about the dream and the team. The dream to be a winner, and the team that loves the sport, but more importantly, loves each other.

Above all, it’s about helping a teammate find his smile so he can get back in the game. Because when you help someone else win, you win too.

And third. Isn’t it ironic? Those who are often considered the least of us because of their special needs are often the ones who teach us the most.

One Flu Over the Season

I have this thing about not eating in restaurants during flu season. I don’t care what anyone says, it can’t be healthy. How could it be? People come to work whether they are sick or not. It’s the corporate way. Feeling a little body slammed? Coughing your guts out? Holding your stomach? It doesn’t matter. Who cares? You don’t get paid for staying home. 

What does this mean for the rest of us? It means that if we eat out, we eat whatever bug they are serving. We know this, yet we open the menu, as if somehow we are immune to the latest string, and I don’t mean potatoes. And it doesn’t help when the server comes to the table and says, “I’m sooooo sick.” This should be our first clue to run. But that wouldn’t be nice, so we order the omelet and watch as the server sneezes.

     Time to get our coats and make a hasty exit. So what if the server is verbally warning us that she’s about to croak in front of our very eyes? So what if she looks like she’s been punched in the nose, and her eyes are swollen, and the manager from you-know-where doesn’t seem to notice? How sick can she be? The establishment wouldn’t let her wait tables if she was that ill. Would they?

      Still, from the looks of it she’s been wrestled to the ground by mucous monster. We've got to save ourselves. This is difficult to explain to Charley.

“Let’s go Son, we’re eating somewhere else.”

      “What?”

      “The server is sick. We don’t want to get what she’s got.

      “Yes I are,” he says. And why? Because he sees the server heading to the table with chicken.

      “Honey, the server has some kind of bug.”

      “No not, Mom, her got kicken.”

      “That’s not what I mean, Son, we don’t want to get the flu.”

      “I stayeen.”

      “We are NOT staying, now get your jacket.”

      “Eat.” He points to the food. “I hungwee. My belly growlin'.”

      Brad and I look at each other. It’s decision time. Stay or go. It’s just one dinner. Besides, she’s already set the plate in front of him, achoo. 

      If you know anything about Down Syndrome, you know only too well that once they’ve got their mind set, that’s it. At least that’s how it is with our Downs. Flexibility does not enter into the DNA. That, and who wants to go out in the cold only to head to another restaurant where some other server probably has the flu.

      “Looks like we’re staying,” Brad says.

      Oh, what can it hurt?

      Surely not everyone who eats at this restaurant gets sick, so pass the ketchup, and get out of the way.

      And with that stupid decision, we caved. The food wasn’t too bad, although anything would have tasted good as late as it was. But what the hay, we had full stomachs. It was a perfect ending to the day. Except for one thing. And this is where I won’t go into specific detail, but let’s just say there are worse things, but I don’t know what. Charley’s flu bug totaled 4 days. I’m on my 5^th.  Thanks waitress. Thanks restaurant. Thanks stupid decision. Cherry flavored Kaopectate anyone?

      Even so, as I write this it occurs to me that even the flu can have it’s upside. First, I’ve lost six pounds. Second, Charley makes a pretty good nurse. He’s covered me with blankets, put pillows behind my head, brought me the phone, put the cat in my lap so I don’t have to suffer alone, and cleaned the house without being asked. He’s kept his TV turned down, and delivered ginger ale where I sit, and kissed my forehead.

      Come to think of it, maybe we should eat out more often.