Whooping Cough Chronicles: Seven


Late 1940’s: A British hospital attempts to treat whooping cough with a decompression chamber.

When my son and I gasp for air at the end of each choking cough, the sound isn’t the airy whoosh movies give when, say, a nearly-drowned person pops to the surface.  This whoop carries a strange clunk at the end, something like a manhole cover clanging shut.  It is low and leaden like that, and seems not to come from me.  Later I read this about whooping cough:  Its name comes from the first breath patients take when a paroxysm ends, an urgent crow that sounds like nothing else in medicine.  My whoop, with its indescribable hollow and solid mix, sounds so strangely it astonishes me, even in my panic for air.  It feels like I’m speaking in a language I don’t know.  Perhaps some person or thing who is not me is using my body to convey something vital.  During one evening fever I start to think our whoops are from dead people attempting to reach back to earth.  It is them, the ones the whooping cough got.  They are using our weakened, empathetic bodies to quickly—timed just perfectly—clunk out messages.  The words are unknowable, of course.  They’re scrambled by long travel from that other realm.  And they’re not meant for either of us anyway.  But when I believe my whoops might be important messages, that instead of just straining for air I’m delivering something–I’m a child’s chosen messenger–the leaden gasps don’t seem to go on as long.  Or anyway, they’re not as scary.    

If you want to see what my adult feet would be you can look at Aunt Maddy’s.  I don’t need your love anymore but it feels good.  Like I’m running full speed again and I’ve got a cherry candy in my mouth because I’ll never choke.  Don’t waste worry on that.  Whoa, that shirt is so not your style.  My little sister has the same baby hair I had.  I mean, she’s bald in the same places I was.  Don’t waste fear on that.  Why do you treat my brother like a flower instead of the bruiser he is?  Look at him hitting the cat.  He’s going to live forever.  You can’t stop feeling by moving faster.  Enough sorries now.  The apologies got boring ten years ago.  There was nothing you could do.  There is no one to blame.  I got a cough, that’s all.  Did you feel that?  I just asked a blue jay to swoop so low it rearranged your hair.  Don’t waste hate on that.  That chocolate chip cookie would taste better in bed.  You know that’s still my bike, right?  But he can ride it if he wants.   


Whooping Cough Chronicles: Six


photo by Andre de Dienes

It’s a busy end-of-the-school year.  My voice doesn’t work for the telephone.  A few rushed emails and texts trickle in daily, asking how we are.  The effect is, I suppose, of receiving a telegram from a seaside palace when bandits have tied you up for torture, face-down in the dust.  If only the palace reports were amused and amazed.  If they offered the kind of description that could transport me momentarily out of the ward.  But the missives read like this:  I FEAR THE PILLOWS IN THIS PALACE MAY HAVE LOST A MILLIMETER OF FLUFF—(STOP)—GOTTA DASH OR I’LL BE LATE TO THE BALL—(STOP)—.   The telegrams are brief and waver between worry and hurry.  The worry seems to be over luxuries—possible sore throats, for instance.  Worry—I vow to remember when I’m better enough to do it—is selfish.  It’s like even out among people you’re sitting under a cloak with Silly-Putty stuffed in your ears, knitting a sweater for yourself that is way too small.  And the rushing off to this or that seems incomprehensible in in its luxury.  That the body could glide unthinkingly, without glitch or pain, from house to car to work to trail to school to meal to bar to concert to house.  Still, hurry carries a sheen the sick can almost ride.  The way, when the last sparkler gets granted, you might run alongside the kid who got it, trying to wave your hand in a stray spark.    

Everyone grappling with sickness has different needs.  It’s kind and thoughtful to wonder if a bed-bound person is stocked for necessary supplies.  If I hadn’t been, a box of Kleenex without pain-enhancing patterns (Kleenex box artists clearly aren’t designing for the sick) may have been so preferable to a recounting of some funny incident.  But can we also treat being amused as a basic human need? Can we agree that being fed a surprising narrative is as important as being fed liquids and broth?  I wondered about all the people sicker than me who had given up on expecting someone, or a mix of funny and thoughtful someones, to get them away from themselves through their ears.   I wondered if they, like me, were lamenting not living in a way that ensured better visitors for ailing or dying:  people crackling with life, to distract them from their failing bodies.


When I’m better, I decide, I’ll form a company that hires comedians and storytellers to visit the bedsides of the sick and dying.  Every time I start to pity myself the lack of a dynamo visitor (Why do wishes for Peppermint Patty and Ethan Hawke drift so frequently into this silence? Is it because neither one of them ever shuts up?) I turn, instead, to plotting a helpful enterprise.  I ponder whether the name Pillowtalk© is already taken, either by an after-hours phone porn company or by a literary pillowcase manufacturer (which should also be a thing).  Scouting employees would require travelling around the world in search of funny people, which sounds—from within the silent, serious walls of our ward—just about perfect.  I plan out the client form, contemplating what sort of boxes the bedded could tick.  Preferred level of animation in a comedian/storyteller seems important, as does degree of humour.  And subject material—both the preferred and dreaded.   Some dying people might want an educational speaker, to teach them in an area they always meant to learn.  Others might feel markedly sicker at the mention of a fact, a stat.  The largest blanks on the form would read Please DO NOT Send Someone Who:  and Please DO NOT Talk About:–since with pain often comes the super-sharp ability to know exactly what you don’t want.


After about a week I feel well enough to concentrate, and therefore to read, and books rush in to fill the need for funny, thoughtful, imaginative company.  I can read on average four pages between coughing fits, and writers can take me to so many places in that time.  And so I realize another—maybe bigger— branch of Pillowtalk© will manage book delivery networks.  The very sick and dying will be quickly granted any book they want to read.  In fact, some clients who request comedians will end up saying to them:  Do you mind just reading to me from that book over there on the table?   I can forget, during my healthy, peopled, busy days, how vital a book can be—its characters can only transport me as thoroughly as I hand myself over to them.  But now I fall in completely. And so I’m no longer someone who can’t stop coughing.  I’m a voice on the telephone, a voice with questions and pauses so perfect it seduces all the strangers it calls (Dana Spiotta’s Innocents and Others—the Jelly & Jack chapters).  I’m a cynical old captain hired to return a ten-year-old white girl to family, after a childhood held captive by the Kiowa Indians.  I used to carry military messages long distance, sprinting by myself blissfully over miles of ground—but now I stand at town podiums reading bits from newspapers to impatient audiences.   I’m the captain’s ten-year-old charge, too, holding straight and alert in the wagon, my body attuned for battles, my hand coiled around a knife.  I’m singing in a language no one understands, and I want the wagon to go back the way it came.  I am white-skinned and freckled, with taffy-colored hair, and my people look nothing like me.  I’m both of the captain and the charge,  and I’m here and not here,  because they don’t  belong anywhere.  Except maybe—in their determination to be wild, to not let wild become a memory—to each other (Paulette Jile’s News of the World).  When I’m no longer sick I will be thankful all over again for these books, which allowed me to be so many people who weren’t coughing-me.  There are only twenty-two perfect stories (if you don’t count her amazing novella, Foster) published by the Irish writer Claire Keegan.  Twenty-two transports so complete that reaching their white spaces at the end feels like being slammed into snow.  Then, in way too short a time, I devour all of David Sedaris’s diary entries (Theft & Finding).  I admire anew how many times a day, at the most minuscule prompts, he manages to be simultaneously outraged and amused.   When I look up from the page I find myself again in that pathetic place—a reader’s place—of counting as my best friend someone who doesn’t even know me.


Just in case a prolonged illness descends to take my concentration, or my eyesight, I better find Beth.  That’s what I decide.  Beth, my long lost friend from Fife, Scotland.  Beth who from that 1990-something day we met at a youth hostel in Adelaide, agreed—even as we pretended to follow a map, a travel route—that wonder and laughter were our only real destinations.  I’m going to find that Beth and I’m going to find others Beths:  male Beths, cyber Beths, Beths with animal bodies.  But also I will travel to Scotland and reunite with the original.  The travel expenses will even be covered by  Pillowtalk©, because when I find her I’m going to hire her on the spot as our Fife & beyond Superior Bedside Visitor.   

During one of the fevers that descend dependably in the early evenings, like clamps tightening on my head, I actually see Beth entering the ward.  This is a happy surprise: since neither one of us travelled with a camera, I have no photos of her.  Her hair is more brown and less red than I thought. It’s straighter than the haywire ringlets I remember.  But her eyes are instantly familiar:  they spark and bulge with funny findings, with incomprehension over totally-normal-but-completely-crazy things.  If I was asleep her eyes would wake me up.  But I’m awake anyway, because Beth enters a room like someone hurled her into it.  She enters like that loaf of bread she once spiralled at me from way down the aisle of a grocery store.  And even doubled over with laughter—not coughs, never coughs—I caught it.



Whooping Cough Chronicles: Five



Some people say Whooping Cough with a W sound and some people say it with an H sound, like there’s no W there at all.  Some people say pertussis to avoid making a choice, but—let’s face it—that’s a gross word and merely hearing it seems to thicken the coating of mucous in my throat.  I discover, even sick as I am, that I hold firmly to my place in the W camp of Whooping Cough.  An immigrant’s habit is to listen carefully in order to better parrot back correct pronunciation, but in this case I don’t.  I won’t.  A campaign over something petty—rather than say, the bid for vaccinations or antibiotics—seems appealing in its manageability.  Something one could chant on the road without being met with violent protest at every turn:  See the W, Say the W!   When people say hooping cough I don’t look askance at them and counter by saying the word prefaced with a long-stutter of Ws, Bugs Bunny style.  I could also add, just to be snarky:  But you probably say Hut’s up, Doc?   I don’t, but I want to, and the wanting makes me happy.  How relievingly light and unimportant, this fuss over sounds.   A simple W is a much-needed point of certainty surrounding all the unknowns that come with the whooping cough.  I decide if—when—I get better I’m going to balance all the hooping coughs I’ve heard by adding W sounds to all kinds of random H words.  And when my ball lands in the basketball whoop I shall cheer: Whip whip whooray!


Somewhere along the way I’m told that antibiotics I’ve been dreaming of, once we get them, won’t alleviate our symptoms at all.  They will merely shorten our contagion period.  As soon as I hear this I decide not to believe it.  Uh Huh, I say, but when those two syllables are out I no longer remember what I’m pretending to have understood.  Denial takes a lot of energy, but in this case relinquishing hope of feeling better takes a lot more. Give me snake oil or opium, lentil flour or willow bark–just don’t give me the word nothing.  And don’t give me it’s kinder-wrapped variation:  nothing but time.  If you are reading this and you have whooping cough, I can tell you that the antibiotics, when we finally get them, do make us feel better.  Maybe it’s coincidental timing and maybe it’s just a placebo effect.  Possibly it’s my aforementioned refusal to surrender hope. But after the first dose we both feel a marked lifting in our throats, a discernible ease in our breaths.  I refrain from gobbling the pills all at once.  Hopeful doesn’t have to mean dumb.  However, though the directions clearly say to take the pill at the same time daily, I dumbly and hopefully untwist the vial lid earlier and earlier every day.


Before we can get the medicine, though, I spend a very sick week lamenting the lack of drug dealers in the park who are peddling antibiotics.  Have I ever witnessed someone casing a pharmacy without knowing, thinking he was just alert and twitching because of the long wait for his medicine?  It suddenly seems incredible that I’ve never seen anyone leap the pharmacy counter, snatch some pills, and bolt for the street. It becomes easy to imagine a future in which really sick people rob pharmacies for the medicine they can’t get or afford.  Pharmacies enclosed in bulletproof glass, sentries perched on the rooftops above them.  They’ll make bulletproof versions of white pharmacist jackets, and sew into them hidden pockets for tasers and guns and daggers and arrows.  Sick people will have to weigh heavily whether to risk their lives getting their prescriptions filled.  And sometimes a pharmacist—deeply frazzled by yet another dispersal-at-gunpoint—will accidentally pinch a bullet from the countertop into a vial of pills.                    

Whooping Cough Chronicles: Four



Both my son and I are dependable sun-worshippers.  We seek the heat.  We shiver in slight breezes, even on summer days, and during winter months we stretch out on warm bright patches of floor, even public floor.  But this sickness has turned us.  Suddenly being hot is hard work.  Sunlight makes our eyes hurt.  It makes our heads hurt.  Outside in the long-awaited heat we breathe worse, and we cough more.  I catch my son with his face inside the freezer.  Not looking for anything—just because the air is cold and crisp.  I shuffle around to join him, lean in to an ice cube tray as though for a kiss   I haven’t been drinking alcohol since January (Which is probably why you got this thing, my inner drunk suggests), but now I fight urges to drive to the local liquor store, with its walk-in freezer.  Would the employees notice if a teetotaler mother and her child strode with sleeping bags into—but not out of—the beer freezer?  And how is it I grow so blissful imagining camping out in a spot–with its shudder-inducing preview of winter– that you couldn’t normally pay either of us to enter?  Who are we, these strangers on the hunt for arctic air?  That’s another crazy thing about getting really sick.  Even as you curl inwards for hours at a time, closer to your own body than ever, you become more and more unrecognizable.   


We lose weight.  When you’re always on the verge of choking you don’t dare put anything in your mouth. Besides, we’re not hungry.  I lose nine pounds in five days, which provides me with a lame joke:  I am so bikini ready….for quarantine.  The other lame jokes involve puns that interchange coughing with coffin.  If my thoughts drift to death—if I find myself, let’s say, googling whooping cough induced suicide—it might be because breath is life.  And neither of us can get a good breath.  A coating of mucous that feels like Elmer’s glue—heavy and sticky—cakes our noses and throats.  It provides a low-grade suffocation, a suffocation drill.  But trying to clear the sticky film away by inhaling or exhaling deeply will cause a coughing fit, which is like being strangled for real.  So we don’t take deep breaths.  We take little puffs of air in and out through Elmer’s mucus, saving ourselves for the next cough.  I think of plants catching fire.  I think of turtles taking naps on the road.  If gills were guaranteed to work would I have the courage to carve into us?  If he was dying, and if they could be low, like a shark’s–would I be daring enough to slice right between my son’s rib bones?


Misery and good fortune really are bedfellows, which is strange enough.  But even more unexpectedly I find, during the darkest night, that fortune tugs away more of the sheet.  For instance, we can’t speak for hours at a time.   We don’t dare–and when we are brave enough to risk coughing fits by trying, our voices cut out.  But some people are born not speaking.  Some people, in one hit or nick to the larynx, will never speak again.  The word luckily keeps clunking around in my head.  We’re not DJ’s, luckily.  We’re not professional opera singers, luckily.  Luckily we aren’t smack in the middle of reading the voice for a major animated motion picture.  My son misses his last weeks of his last year at his friendly elementary school.  But he’s not taking exams yet, luckily.  He’ll be deemed no longer contagious in time to attend his graduation ceremony, luckily.  The back yard space between the two soccer goals—which my son constantly zings and spins and kicks so frantically that merely watching him feels like standing inside a pinball machine— falls eerily still.  He mourns another missed swim meet, another gone soccer game.  He manages to stand in goal for his soccer team’s semi-finals game, squinting sunwards to watch the strikers do his job down-field.  He’s there but not there, which must feel something like riding a hoverboard over your house.  When a robber’s breaking into it.  They lose by a single goal.  But they weren’t headed for the Olympics, luckily (We feel so bad, so belatedly, for the two Australian Water Polo players who contracted whooping cough right before the 2012 London Olympics.  Luckily we’re not Melissa Rippon and Nicola Zagame.)  We have no diagnosis yet, and no medicine.  But luckily we have a house, clean water, beds, toilets, Kleenex.  On and on like this we fall and rise with self-pity, with gratitude, more gratitude.  For every poor me that flares up inside, there are four more I’m so luckys stomping in to extinguish it.   

Whooping Cough Chronicles: Three


Painting by Mel Williamson

Though the doctor has said my son can attend school, we quickly take a down-turn, and go down from there.  He stays home with me, where we cough.  Our strings of coughs often sound like geese honking, like seals barking—animalistic.  And sometimes they are wetter and deeper—more identifiably human, if human-on-the-way-out.  When the coughing fits grip us my son and I do some of the following:  pull abdominal muscles, burst blood vessels in our eyes, pee our pants (just me, he would want me to clarify), get bloody noses, slobber on our clothes, spit on the floor, choke, gag, throw up a mix of mucous and bile.  Because lying down brings the fits on harder and faster we dread nights.  Nights, of such solace to some sick people—when the world like them stops moving.

All day we alternate between holding completely still, to keep from coughing, and drifting around the house aimlessly, coughing our heads off.  I keep thinking if I go to another room I’ll feel better, my son says.   We are trying to get away from our bodies.  They keep following us.  Our coughs double us at the waist, and the gesture—if you panned out and muted the sound—could be one of bowing deeply, reverently.  We bow to cabinets and trash cans and scarred flooring.  We bow to each other.   


The lack of sleeping and eating (choking on swallows of phlegm doesn’t mix with food) soon inspires minor hallucinations.  It makes sense that after so much time in his cot, his only movement coughing, my son’s medals on the wall become fuzzy, ghostly with cobwebs.  But then some of them begin to corrode at the edges, as though a rodent has scurried the wall and taken select nibbles.  The ribbons fade before my eyes from royal blue, scarlet, emerald green, deep purple to barely-there color, the kind you get from staring at the sun.  They’re like the strips on a rainbow windsock which has hung in the desert, unwaving, for ten years straight.  One afternoon an Oak Bay Invitational Swim Meet 2nd Place ribbon the color of pink chalk slips off the wall and flutters to a stop on the floor.  It s aligned perfectly between our cots.  When we are blinded in twin coughing fits a muscled, speedoed Playmobil guy we don’t even own freestyles across the floor and collapses right inside it.


As we worsen the phrase he could have gone to school he could have gone to school replays in my head, as will the refrains of songs that cause us to cringe.  In attempt to make it go away I venture deeper into it.  I imagine how my son would slump down the hallway to his classroom, his backpack shaking when he coughed.  He’d shuffle right past the kindergarten room, where many mothers (sometimes resembling, in their exhaustion, peeling stickers of superheroes) stand at the doorway, excited and relieved to have a day ahead with “just” a baby.  Let’s say my son stops to look at one of these babies—maybe the one he insists is already so cool!—and he starts to cough.  Let’s say the baby lurches out to my son, cool tagging cool.  Let’s say the baby is perched on a tall mom’s hip, which puts his nose and mouth right in line with my son’s.   


When I’m well enough to advise, I may mention the Tdap vaccine like I’m speaking into a megaphone.  Step right up!  Don’t be shy!  Get your tetanus, diphtheria and pertussis here!  But no one, I discover anew, will agree on vaccines.  Everyone wants to explain why to, or why not to.  Voices raise, eyes well up, hands fly and feet stomp.  If you don’t get them you’re a brainwashed fool.  If you do get them you’re a brainwashed fool.  For every video clip on the internet of a baby dying of whooping cough there is a video clip of someone saying a vaccine damaged her baby.  For every article scientifically debunking the myths surrounding vaccines there is an article identifying vaccines as the way pharmaceutical companies slip us dangerous chemicals.  It becomes easier, when you’re sick, to give up on the idea of herd—herd immunity, herd sanity, herd generosity.  I might start to murmur the word Tdap.  I might start to conjure a dead child’s father, dressed as Robin Hood, breaking into sleeping houses at night with dosed needles. Soon whenever I say the word vaccine I picture a field of cows running strongly and loudly in all different directions.  Then I blink and in the spots where each of the cows had been standing before, just peacefully eating, lies a coffin the size of a clarinet case.   

Whooping Cough Chronicles: Two


When my son’s school sends notice that a case of pertussis has been diagnosed, we go in to see the doctor.  But we can’t see our old doctor, because he’s moving away.  Our old doctor makes western jewelry and lives on a farm he calls Ragged Azz Ranch.  I’m pretty sure his pick-up truck has the Zs written backwards—so stellar an aesthetic decision this keyboard won’t let me replicate it.  I used to run by Ragged Azz Ranch while training for marathons, and always I would wave back at the scarecrow placed in the seat of a dead tractor at the end of the driveway.  The first time I waved at the scarecrow my pace picked up considerably, and so it became a lucky thing I did.  Sometimes I wondered if I’d go even faster if I ran over and high-fived the scarecrow, whose upraised straw arm ended in a sturdy garden glove.  But I was still a crazy marathoner training to the millisecond at that point, and it would have taken like forty-seven seconds just to reach the scarecrow’s hand.  Now I only run in the forest, no watch but the sun.  I follow my dog on all kinds of detours.  I like to think the real estate agent, on her initial drive into Ragged Azz Ranch, glanced over at the scarecrow and dictated a note—not to remove it—but to put it in some classier clothes.


Our new doctor calls my name as she’s clicking down the hallway, before she even appears in the waiting room, and the effect is of being cued by a backstage percussion instrument.  As we walk to her office I notice my athletic son watching her high-heeled shoes–items he seldom sees on this island–and wonder if he is properly impressed at her pace.  One could believe, watching her, that high heels make a person faster.  Then we are inside her office.  Is admiring freckles perverse and prejudiced, because they’re on a person’s skin?  She has really nice freckles.  She speaks at the pace of an auctioneer.  My son and I seem, in comparison, like people who have been hit over the heads and then submerged in a giant aquarium.  We seem, actually, like scarecrows slumped on dead tractors.  I remember to say that at night especially our coughs plummet us, that we whoop and gasp for breath.  I remember to ask for antibiotics.  But she doesn’t think we sound like we have whooping cough.  As soon as she says it our coughs sputter down into nothing.  They skitter away like invisible friends when a parent asks who you were talking to.   


The doctor agrees to do a swab on us, to send off to the lab.  If it comes back positive we will get the antibiotics.  My son goes first.  We hold hands.  His hand has long skinny fingers now, a hand of bones.  I would never know it was his chubby toddler hand if I hadn’t been holding it all along.  The doctor brings forth a long wand with a padded tip and slides it up into his nose.  Evidently she plans to access his throat via the back of his nose.  I watch.  The sinister silver handle of it keeps disappearing and disappearing into his nose, like a magic trick.  I wait for a dove or a line of silks to emerge from his other nostril.  His hand tightens in mine.  After a small eternity she eases out the wand.  My son’s eyes are watering, but he smiles at me.  The smile is one of disbelief.  His face is full of things he doesn’t say.

Then it’s my turn.  The wand goes in.  It keeps going.  Even after it should have stopped it pushes on. My hearing fades out.  I see stars.  The pain!  I think of accidental lobotomies, of babies being raped.  When at last the doctor eases out the wand, I drop my son’s hand.  He rattles it in the air because I had been squeezing it so hard.  That was so, so terrible!  I exclaim, and shake my head like a wet dog.  My son smiles and nods, embarrassed for me but also maybe pleased to hear it said.

The doctor is filling out the label, and seems to forget we are there.  I’m completely in shock.  For about three whole minutes I feel more shocked than sick.  I’m shocked about how painful the swab was, yes–but mostly I’m shocked about my son.  I know we’re not supposed to confuse bravery with stoicism, that we’re supposed to raise boys who talk easily and loudly about their feelings.  I know, too, that I wouldn’t be admiring my son’s silence if we hadn’t both endured, within minutes, the exact same pain.  In this way the swab provides a revelation of a non-medical sort:  how deeply runs my son’s quiet.  He didn’t cry out and he didn’t say stop.  His face, afterwards, did all the speaking.  Decades ago, during a french film, I may have wished for a certain boy I saw on the big screen.  If I had been younger I would have wanted not for him but to be him.  He had maybe ten lines, tops.  His brain and face whirred, clicking everything into place without the help of his mouth.  We long for things in the dark and think nothing will come of them.  But he stayed with me, that boy.  That quiet boy watching in the doorway, unblinking under his dark bangs. 

Whooping Cough Chronicles: One



Whooping cough, at its peak, is like getting strangled while being kicked in the ribs.  At approximately every eight minutes.  All day and all night.  You can even, with not much imagination, feel the leather fingers curling around your neck, the black boot tip plummeting a rib.  Someone has a cough.  But in this case, the cough has you. Dire as it sounds to say prisoner and captive and torture, by day two of the coughing paroxysms these descriptors might float quite naturally and easily into your head.  It is confusing when your body beats you up.  You think, I must save myself from this evil captor!  I’ve got to escape this dark basement, with its little gleams of sinister weapons!  But then you realize the captor is you.  The basement is your own bed.  The sun that you have waited for all fall and winter and spring is finally out there, sneaking into the room in feeble twinkles.


My sons are completely up-to-date on their vaccinations.  I say this matter-of-factly, not to start a fight.   

They are both brave about needles.  Even as babies they were brave.  As toddlers, when the nurse filled her needle, I always put my hand in theirs and said, Just squeeze when it hurts.  Squeeze as hard as you need to.  My hand would flex, ready, but no squeeze came.  Sometimes I actually squeezed their hands during the shot.  Just to remind me I was there.


A few years ago I stepped on a board in the woods and the nail on it went right through my flip flop, into my foot.  I only knew it had happened because when I stepped forward one of my flip flops was heavier and higher than the other.  The shoe had become suddenly stylish—black upper with a contrasting bronze sole, a fancy platform flip-flop.  I was dazzled.  And I forgot to get a tetanus shot, which would have also carried the booster for pertussis.


It happens easily, even naturally:  my older son gets a cold, followed by a cough.  I develop his symptoms a few days later.  Even when our coughs get bad, we figure it’s another virus.  The viruses on this island get passed around as fast as the gossip. I take to sleeping on a dismantled bunk bed that rests about five feet from my son’s.  His room becomes a ward.  A ward strewn with soccer socks, some flat (fresh) and some coiled (used).  A room laced, on the slanted ceiling, with ripped superhero stickers.  The bunting I made with Nelly Bly, when she was visiting her tiny grandsons and initiating me on the sewing machine, dips down from the curtain rod, one letter per triangle:  B E B R A V E.  The wall over my son’s bed displays the ribbons and medals he’s won, and when the fan blows they flutter and clank softly, as though rousing awake to rally him into action.  The poster-sized Lionel Messi never looks back at us, no matter how hard we stare at him.  He only looks at a ball.  Will we die without ever having flown on Qatar Airways?  The wooden floor of the ward blossoms white with Kleenex tossed towards the trash buckets by our cough-shaken hands.  All through the night when one of us erupts in coughing fits the other answers back.  It’s oddly comforting, having someone overlap your coughs with his—it registers as evidence your suffering is being heard and replied to.  We become the relentless and unmusical versions of the owls out in the backyard, who duet deep into the night from nearby trees.