Today was depressing. My sinus headache got worse, so I took four Seroquel (it’s allowed for when I don’t feel well) and two Advil, and then I was able to take a five-hour nap. Right before I fell asleep, one random happy memory after another flashed through my mind. This would be a direct effect of the Seroquel. Happy times! I don’t remember any of them now.
When I woke up, it was after 7:00 PM. I staggered downstairs. Jeopardy! was going off. It’s my dad’s favorite game show. Then the phone rang. Caller ID said the call was from my mom, and I wasn’t going to answer it. For whatever weird reason, my dad used some sort of peer pressure on me to get me to answer it. “Oh, go ahead and answer. Jeopardy is over.”
So I picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Meg, is that you? Is that you?”
“I was so terrified when your dad told me you’re ill! Are you dying?”
“It’s a sinus infection, Mother.”
“But you could die! You could die! Life isn’t safe anymore.”
I grunted. “There’s no connection whatsoever between sinus infections and the coronavirus. I took four nappytime pills, and now I’m fine.”
“You took four nap pills? Oh no! Why? Why?” she screeched.
“It’s Seroquel. Some people take 1,000 mg every day. I took 400 mg. It’s allowed.”
“Oh, that’s horrible! Your brain will be damaged.”
“That’s nice. Thanks, Mother.”
“I finished reading your book. I don’t understand what happened to the main character. I’m old and feeble, and my mind doesn’t work any longer.”
I slowly explained what happened to the main character.
“And that was explained in the book?” she asked.
“I spoke to your brother. He wants to show me his new house on Sunday. I told him you and your dad are coming over here to eat birthday cake.”
I sighed. This was news to me.
“So I was thinking we could all get together and tour his new house!” she gushed. “You and your dad could pick me up, drive over to his house, and then drive me home, and go home yourselves! Unless your brother’s nice enough to drive me home.”
We spent five tedious minutes making arrangements which will hopefully fall through. She repeated our plans to me about five times to make sure I understood the procedure. Drive here. Drive there. Drive back here. Drive some more. Help Mother climb the stairs of a three-story Victorian house using her walker. Shove my birthday cake in her face. Force her to eat the rainbow.
My replies to her questions became flat grunts, but she didn’t take a hint. Instead, she leaned in harder. “I hope you’re wearing a mask. There are bad things in the very air we breathe.”
“I hope you’re obeying social distancing. Life is scary and threatening!”
I grunted again.
“Where do you do your shopping?” Her voice was caustic with the need to put me on the defensive. “I’d assume the grocery stores are cesspools of germs and contagion. You don’t go there more often than necessary, do you?”
“All the time.” My headache was fast returning. “I have to go. I’m tired.”
Fortunately, she let me go. But once I was off the phone, I was in a really bad mood. I was mad at my dad for not protecting me from her better. He urged me to speak to her, and that seemed underhanded of him. His defense when I got mad was, “She told me earlier that she wanted to talk to you about your book.” Uhuh. Whatever.
He walked to the local drugstore and bought me some Hershey’s dark chocolate.
At midnight, I got his and my assignment for the microfiction, 100-word contest. He got grumpy because I wrote his assignment with a salmon ink pen and he couldn’t read it. So I told him that he’s supposed to write historical fiction involving wrapping a gift and using the word “sunshine”. He got all upset over that. Apparently, he’s not a natural writer. Historical fiction is the best genre he could get, because he majored in history and he loves the subject. Now he’s muttering that gift wrapping hasn’t been around all that long. I told him it’s in the Little House on the Prairie books. He didn’t seem to believe me.
So now I’m just bummed out. And achey.