Division Essay

I have contracted yet another cold and have become a walking warehouse of Puffs Plus tissues, Alkaseltzer Cold and Sinus, slippers and robe. Symptoms are limited to the sinus passages and has been producing a fluorescent yellow nasal mucus. The color of my highlighters, the color of my African lovebird's bright belly. There is pressure at the upper bridge of my nose, eyelids puffy as though I've just endured a round of mourning, and am experiencing aggravating alternating rounds of congestion and post nasal drip. Absence of sore throat, fever, body aches. This is what I'd tell my doctor if I went to see her, but I won't. I know what her answers would be, I know what the treatment is. You can not cure a viral infection. You can only treat the symptoms. The body must do the work. I tell the couch this as I lay there and groan, my husband getting ready for the football game, saying to me, "baby, I've never seen anyone get my colds than you." It'd make sense, though. I am the perfect storm, the ideal host for germ generation.

"Well, I take that statement back," my husband says, after a little thought. "You're still very young." Normally, this would be considered an insult. My youth is not a handicap, I will not allow it to be. Nor is it an excuse for ignorance. Yet, with the overwhelming evidence before me, it'd be foolish not to recognize that this time, this one time, my delicate years are not in my favor here. My husband, more than twice my age, rarely falls ill. He's had time, years, to build immunity to the majority of strains we're exposed to daily. I have not. When a new pathogen invades, my body doesn't understand what it is, only understands that it's foreign. So it attacks, and attacks hard, in order to develop that immunity, that recognition for the next go-around. In a sense, immunity is a form of maturity and all maturity takes time. And it takes a lot of trial and error, a lot of getting sick.

"And," my husband continues, "you work the ideal environment. You're exposed all the time." I simply nod to that one, put another tissue to my aching nose and feebly question my commitment to nursing. I think about the last day I worked. Thought about how many of the residents were coughing, spewing airborne particulates, wiping dripping noses and touching things. I cringe. It's not that I don't practice precaution, I certainly, neurotically, do. I carry antibiotic alcohol gel with me at all times, and after touching a resident or a particularly common item, I put it on as liberally as lotion. Then there's the handwashing itself. Before and after using the bathroom, before and after eating, after sneezing, after coughing. As well as at any random moment in the shift when I feel it's just the right thing to do. My hands sting by the time I get home, and if they don't, I know I did not wash them enough. Then there's the constant mantra, "don't touch your face, don't touch your nose, don't eat with your hands, don't wipe at your eyes, leave your glasses alone." Yet, in the end, all precautions aside, I and no one else, can choose the air we breathe. I can choose the work, but not really. I love what I do, and believe I'm simply on a hyper-road to immunity.

"Then," I hear my husband still going on, "you take things so seriously. You're always stressing out about something." I turn my face into the pillow on this one. It is so true, beyond true, it is pure and simple reality. Choosing a high-activity, high-stress lifestyle will never bode well in the pursuit for high immunity. Not even a steady diet of Vitamin C, antioxidant juices and high protein will spare me. I ruminate, I stress, I organize and reorganize. I hold myself to standards and expectations of performance in all areas of my life that I would consider foolish of anyone else. It's not a negative trait, really. It's simply one that needs tempering and moderation. One day, my husband and stepson endlessly leaving lights on will not bother me so much, money and bills will not cut me to the core so easily, feelings of self-worth and adequacy will not be questions so strong. I will mellow, as my husband says, with age. I will find my niche, I will be less wound, more calm and centered. I admit, I may not be as hard off as others, but until I ease my struggling inability to cope, I'll leave my doors and windows wide open for those buggy invaders.

I reach for another Puffs Plus. "So this is why I get sick all the time?" I ask him. He nods. Although I already know this, it's a relief. My easy contraction is simply a combination of circumstance and environment. The threefold triangle: youth, employment, a hectic life. A recipe for my susceptibility. So I will wear these common colds with a bit of uncommon pride because they are due to what I didn't have only a mere few years ago. Perhaps it is a fair trade. A full nose for a full life.