"Isolation Response"

 

            I woke up in the middle of the night with a slight headache and a matching echo of discomfort in my throat. Nothing bad–something I would’ve ignored in the past. With mental sirens sounding loudly, my new response went into hyper speed. Opening the medicine cabinet, I grabbed Mucinex DM and quickly downed a tablet. Scooping up a new box of Vicks and my thermometer I headed to the family room to set up a sleeping area that removed me from the rest of our household. I returned to the bathroom long enough to spray surfaces with Lysol. With my warmest robe and pillows snuck from the bed, I shifted quietly into the other room. In the darkness, I snuck into the kitchen to add to my disinfectant arsenal: more Lysol spray and hand sanitizer. I grabbed a new mask and added two bottles of water, placing everything on the table next to the couch.

            I fell back asleep easily, but upon waking I realized that our household, like many others, no longer can ignore a nighttime onset of a stuffed nose or slight fever. With both the flu and COVID on the rise, symptoms I ignored in the past become warnings to medicate and isolate as soon as possible. I woke up before dawn and found that a normal temperature raised my spirits. The slight headache and sore throat remained as a shadow of the night before. I drank a bottle of water and settled back into sleep.

            For the rest of the day, I wore a mask around my family when they came in to the room. I stayed snoozing on the couch watching disaster movies. I took a second dose of medication even though my symptoms were gone. Waking up this morning with my usual energy level, I’m thankful that whatever ailed me passed within a few hours once a tablet hit my system.

 

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Clumsy With Stress"

 

            While cooking stuffed cabbage the other night for dinner, I stupidly took off my sweat shirt to keep the long sleeves away from water as I washed and prepped the food. I know most people just bunch their sleeves up to elbow height, but mine always rebel, creep downward, and end up saturated. One careless second, and my stomach grazed the edge of the hot pot. My pain threshold is as high as Mount Everest. I quickly grabbed a piece of ice, slid it over the area, and forgot about it until it stung with pain with my evening bath. I carefully rubbed Neosporin on the spot, but left it uncovered during the night. The next morning another layer of ointment soothed my skin and the loose pants and top I wore didn’t contact the area at all. I blissfully went about my daily chores and ran errands most of the evening.

            Of course, my neglect in not covering the section meant by nightfall the area appeared redder than the previous day. Another round of antibiotic salve and a loose gauze bandage prepped the burn for the night. This morning, I cut some Aloe Vera to rub over the spot and found a large bandage to protect it through today’s activities. Although it doesn’t look bad, I’ll check it multiple times today to add whatever protection I think it needs to heal properly.

            One of the first signs that I’m stressed comes with some kind of self-inflicted injury. My mind focuses on whatever’s troubling me and the result of inattention turns into a cut finger, smashed toe, or a variety of scorched body parts. On the surface, I don’t appear to be drowning in stress, but my wound the other day comes wrapped in worry about what tomorrow, and the days after, will bring to me and my family. We cancelled visiting my brother at Christmas because of his bout with Norovirus a couple of weeks before left him too tired for company. The flu snuck into our household, sickening my son for endlessly long days. Fires and furies flame all around us, and I dread January 20^th and its poisonous potentials.

            I promised myself that I’d spend today bagging leaves that we raked into piles the other day, even if today is my “No Chore Thursday”. But maybe I do need to take the entire day off instead of finishing with the yard. Who knows what clumsy move I could make while bending, gathering, twisting and hauling? Better for me to stay safely inside with a pot of Earl Grey hot, a couple of chocolate chip cookies, and my latest read Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind.

 

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman        

"Fear of Flu"

         “Did you get a flu shot this year?” asked one of my friends.

         “Nah,” I laughed. “I’d love the excuse to spend a week in bed!”

        

         My cavalier relationship with receiving flu shots stems from the fact that I haven’t suffered from the flu since a bout back in the late 70s when I was in college. If I get a shot, it’s because my annual physical nestled in the center of flu season, and the PA stuck it on her list of recommendations before she left the room.

         When I took care of Mom, I religiously received a shot since I made certain she did. We also did our mammograms together. Our team approach to healthcare meant I paid a little more attention to the predicted strains of virus “out there” than I do now.

         When reports began to flood the media that this year’s shot missed the mark, I decided not to bother with getting one. I’ve watched friends fall victim to both strains this year—and most of them received the vaccine! A recent report out of Canada states that this year’s vaccine is about 17% effective.

         I made a conscious decision not to get the shot because I don’t want to slip into a cocky attitude about the infections floating around me. An optimist by nature, I know I’d slide into thinking I’d be among the low percentage of people who’d respond well to the shot. My confidence in being safe would make me lazy in my approach to each work day.

         Instead, by not getting vaccinated this year, I’ve turned into a cleaning maniac whenever I enter a classroom. Over the last month, I’ve worked at five different campuses. That means I’ve come into contact with close to 500 students and teachers—just in classrooms. It doesn’t add in hall and cafeteria duty, or all of the hand-to-hand contact when I help load students into their parents’ cars. Usually, I think nothing about using another teacher’s keyboard and mouse. I grab dry erase board markers, use staplers, and may find myself biting onto a pencil so I won’t misplace it.

         Not this year! When I enter a classroom each morning, I find the nearest tub of Clorox wipes. I attack the mouse, keyboard, teacher’s desk until I’m certain the hard surfaces are clean. I move onto the items I know I’ll have to use—even remembering to wipe down the rope that attaches to the screen. Door knobs and broomsticks. Everything gets wiped down. I can’t disinfect everything, but I’ve developed a new habit. When I finish handling all of the students’ folders, I quickly pump sanitizer onto my hands. I make certain that I use my own pens and pencils, and I clean them off with a wipe before putting them back into my tote each day.

         Will all of these preventative measures keep me healthy? Probably not. Some little itty-bitty germ will become airborne and beeline it straight into my respiratory system. I will become a Bernie Mac episode.

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman