Contrary to a certain famous modern poet’s assertion, in my world November is the cruelest month. Okay, it’s arguably a toss up with December-February, too, but in terms of the lovely cycle of getting sick, falling behind with work, and missing family functions and/or social engagements, November is right up there with the best of them.
This past weekend was no exception: the tightened chest and spastic cough of Thursday night developed into the mini-plague that prevented me from attending a long-awaited family function Sunday morning.
(It’s not H1N1, though. Still hoping I avoid that long enough to get my H1NI vaccine.)
Anyway, I had to make a phone call early Sunday morning to let relevant parties know I would not be able to make it. My throat was hoarse and scratchy from coughing, and my voice itself was fairly faint because I wasn’t moving much air. It was definitely Crypt-keeper quality (as opposed to my other alter-voice, Darth Vadar, which is a little deeper and usually sets in a good two to three weeks later.)
My two-year-old niece loves the phone these days, and when she heard it was me on the other end, she wanted to say hello.
I started talking (read: rasping) to her as best I could, asking the kinds of questions two-year-olds are usually pretty good at answering.
“Broken. Mama, it’s broken,” I heard her say.
“Not working,” she muttered, her voice growing muffled and distant as she pattered away.
Couldn’t have said it better myself.