Winter Rituill

I have been going through the old, worn Puma shoebox that is my mind, struggling and looking for an answer to what, if any, winter tradition or ritual I have been a part of.

I thumbed through memories and ideas to no avail.

It was starting to become aggravating.

Maybe not as aggravating as stores setting up Christmas displays before the corpse of Halloween had even gone cold.

Or as annoying as coworkers hanging up strings of lights and blasting holiday music two weeks before we’d be going on Thanksgiving break.

Then it hit me.

I finally realized what the family tradition of my youth was.

Granted, it didn’t happen literally every year, but it occurred frequently enough that I would consider it a family tradition.

Plus, the internet said a tradition “is a subjective judgement,” and I believe everything I read on the internet.

While I was growing up, for several years, many in a row, most of us would get the flu.

And not some mild, got a runny nose, feel a little crappy flu.

Like brutal, got-to-go-to-the-urgent-care-or-hospital, flu.

Odds on favorite was when winter would hit, the ritual would begin.

First, it became excruciating to swallow.

Throat clogged, tight, and engraved on the inside by acidic shards of glass.

Next, eyes would heat and head would pound as my skull became the forge of evil gods.

Then it was time to spend several days cocooned under sheets over clammy skin, all the while shaking like a snow globe in the hands of some demonic child.

Eventually, the most unwelcome and uninvited guests would rise up and say hello from my stomach and into the strategically placed trashcan by my bed.

Holly jolly indeed.

During one of our now almost annual trips to the urgent care, we sat in the crowded waiting room waiting to be seen.

My discomfort grew as I sat in one of those chairs that had a mere suggestion of a cushion, and from sweltering heat in the waiting room.

Needing some kind of relief, I stood with the intent of partaking in the cold, fresh air outside as, even in normal circumstances, I really don’t like the heat.

I took two steps forward, began to drift back, and I transitioned into the next scene with an absolutely beautiful, cinematic iris wipe.

Somewhat cooler air rushed over my face, aiding my regaining of consciousness, as a nurse hurriedly wheeled me past occupied exam rooms.

She parked the wheelchair in a nice, out of the way space in the hall, and gave me my first IV.

I’ve had several IV experiences after, some in quite dramatic fashion, but there’s just something special about your first time.

And during the holidays?

Can’t beat that.

I wouldn’t recommend passing out in a waiting room, but it did get me seen faster. Little blessings or something along those lines.

In the many years since, I have, thankfully, managed to break that tradition, among a few others.

Some still linger, even after you’ve removed the cause.

Guess it’s all emblematic of why I had to make some tough choices a decade ago.

Remembering all this has given a little bolster to my resolve in trying my best to get a little better every year.

Thinking of making the latter a tradition.