First of the Season

At some point after leaving work a week ago Wednesday, I noticed that I was sneezing more than usual. It flashed through my mind that it could be the first sign of a cold, but I've been wrestling with allergies so much this past year that I didn't really have any clear symptoms. So I blithely ignored it and even went for a vigourous walk after dinner. I awoke the next morning having realised my mistake and immediately started zinc, but it was already too late.

Thursday wasn't that bad in retrospect but, reasoning that I was at my most infectious, I decided to take the day off anyhow. I slept away the morning and rested in the afternoon, having made my mind up to go in the next day regardless how cruddy I felt. I did feel cruddy and I did make it in, but I only lasted half a day.

Incredibly, I still thought I might make it to the "Fall Bear Mixer" that Saturday if I just rested up the whole day and then drugged myself up in the evening. Up until my afternoon nap, I was still encouraging friends to join me there. Fortunately, I realised in time what a terrible idea this was.

Sunday it really kicked my ass. Headaches, chills, nausea--it began to dawn on me that this could even be the flu. I tried taking my temperature but I couldn't find the instant-read thermometer and I couldn't figure out how to read the older one. That came the next day, and I was startled to see it at 104°.

Don't worry--this turned out to be a false reading. But I still felt terrible. Tuesday morning, I had a previously-scheduled doctor appointment in E-town. I also had a terrible night, waking a little after 2 a.m. and struggling to fall asleep again before dawn. Whatever I had, it was making me terribly hungry and I was running out of food in the house.

I'd left an update on FB Monday morning with my false fever reading that open a floodgate of good wishes and several sincere offers to bring me food. I eventually allowed JB to bring me soup for lunch and the neighbours to bring some crackers for dinner. But my options were dwindling.

Taking a Lyft to the appointment turned out to be a good idea, not least of all because of the interesting chat I had about navigation with the young driver. (He was as appalled as I was at his age by the general level of geographic ignorance in society.) My doctor pooh-poohed the idea of the flu but indulged my desire to put off my tests for later when I felt better.

Wednesday began with another terrible headache but an ibuprofen dispensed with that and it was fairly copacetic. The market was surprisingly busy at 4 p.m. and I forgot some basics I'd been pining for (like English muffins) but still felt good enough afterwards to cook my first proper meal in a week, finally run the dishwasher, and even invite one of my neighbours in for a chat.

Which brings us to today. Despite a rocky start (more insomnia), I was determined to make it in in the morning, leaving at midday if need be. But I've managed to power through and might even be up for a little dinner out this evening. Honestly, though, I don't feel one bit better now than I did a week ago (albeit a real improvement over the weekend). Let's hope that this is not only the first but also the worst.

Crying out to Heaven

The one upside to spending so much time at home was that--most of the time, at least--I wasn't too sick to read. Maybe I could've pushed myself to get through a little more, but I'm content with finishing one novel, starting another, and making substantial progress on a third.

The round house was the novel I finished and it was a terrific read. In retrospect, I understand the critiques on Goodreads even less. I suppose it seems to take too many detours only if you're accustomed to whodunnits that lead you by the nose. Every character ends up being necessary to the story in some way or another, even someone as minor as the girl from Montana the narrator's best friend falls for. At first the tribal legends murmured by an old man in his sleep seem like extraneous colour but then a casual comment in the final pages reveals how they present a traditional view of justice at odds with what the protagonist's family have to deal with day-to-day.

The complaint about all the non-Indian characters being unsympathetic seems particularly gratuitous. All I can figure is that these came from readers more comfortable with uplifting tales of white saviours arriving on distant reservations to uplift the Natives rather than the more common experience of profiteers, renegades, and those who couldn't find more desirable assignments. The (white) villain of the novel is presented as essentially irredeemable, but that's the Problem of Evil that most writers end up grappling with at some point or other.

Erdrich makes the intelligent choice of having the narrator speak with the lived experience of an adult reminiscing rather than just the limited view of a randy teenager. This allows him to intersperse the narrative with comments on how things ultimately turned out, thus providing a spot of relief from the sometimes crushing weight of contemporaneous events and obviating the need for an afterword.

And it was awfully heavy going at times. More than once, I realised that with a little effort I could push through and finish another chapter or even the entire novel, but I felt the need for some breathing room. I actually sobbed at the climax, something which almost never happens to me with novels. I felt the weight of the events and the emotions as I puttered around the house and sat with them for as much as an hour at a time. It was a wonderfully indulgent way to read and a fulfilling glimpse of a retirement I'd love to have the leisure to experience.