On the morning of Winterfest, I became deathly ill.
My younger brother and dad had been suffering from unknown maladies for weeks. It was only a matter of time before they passed it on to me.
I sat on my couch, fermenting in my illness and bad attitude and wanting to use this rampant cold as an excuse not to go to school for a week. But I had to get better—and soon. An upcoming audition (that was just over a week away at the time) was ever so creeping up on me, and I was not planning on repeating my practice of procrastination. Thus, I pulled myself up by my bootstraps, took an extra-strong dose of Tylenol (left over from my wisdom tooth recovery), and miserably went on with my day.
I tried every trick in the book, every home remedy one could possibly think of: drinking water, avoiding sugar, Ibuprofen, homeopathy, water, spoonfuls of honey, honey in tea, honey-lemon tea, lemon-ginger tea, ginger tea, pickled ginger, and water. Water, water, water.
The next day, I was attacked by dry coughs and a drier throat. It hurt to swallow, to breathe—but my headache was gone. Again, I drilled myself with tea and water, water, water.
I went to bed early that night but woke up to coughing attacks that shook my body and my bed. I ran to my bathroom and desperately drank water from the faucet, realizing—exactly a week before the audition was due—that it would take a lot longer to get better than I thought.
The impending deadline beats in the bottom of my stomach, residing amongst whatever malady has chosen to haunt me at this unlucky week. Email after email from the director reminding me to submit worsen this feeling; every sniffle and cough and sore throat gather in a storm around my mind, penetrating my confidence and hope that I might do well.
I wish I could do something. I wish there were some magic medicine that would make whatever ailment that has haunted me these past few days disappear. But I know it doesn’t work that way. I know that the only thing that can help me is time. Time to sleep, time to rest. Time to heal.
That goes for any pain that afflicts me. No measly bandage, nor medical glue, nor needle and thread can heal a wound that quickly. But needle and thread help, to some extent, as long as it’s taken with a spoonful of time.
Sometimes it’s ugly. Sometimes, the stitching comes loose, and the wound opens up, and the carefully compacted, deliberately buried injury comes out again, forcing me to look it in the eyes.
I don’t want to. I want to tear it out and throw it in the trash. I want to never think about it again.
But I need it. It is some part of me, I don’t know what, that is necessary for the pumping of my blood or the straining of my muscles or the transmission of my thoughts. Something that, despite the way it hurts, is necessary for the function of my body. For the continuation of my life.
So I stitch it back up. It hurts, and Lord knows I’m an amateur at sewing—but if I don’t do it, no one will. It’s something I must do myself.
And then I wait.
And it gets smaller and hurts less until the only remnant of my wound is a little pink scar—and, more importantly, a memory. A muscle memory. A lesson learned.
So now, I sit in my bed, praying for fast healing, a snow day, and all the unspokens. But most of all, I pray for time.
