Dang those miserable masks

September 16, 2020


    I woke up coughing and I couldn’t stop. Oh no, I thought. What have I done? 

    I have to admit I’m not fond of wearing my mask. Nor am I much for quarantine. I’ve fudged the guidelines more than once. I’m not a anti-masker by any means. I try to behave. But I try to have a normal life too. 

     I visit my 92-year-old mother, who would be insulted if I didn’t give her a hug. The church ladies have organized a weekly meeting in the park. We try to wear masks and stay six feet apart, but it is so hard to understand what someone is saying at 6 feet with a mask on. I try to do my part for the community. I worked the polls in August even though I was scared to death I would get infected. Somebody needed to do it. 

    So when I woke up coughing I figured I had fudged once too often. I was overcome with regret. What had I been thinking? If only I could have a do-over. 

    A racking cough shook me out of the bed. I hunted through the bathroom drawer. Where was the thermometer? I unwrapped a cough drop. What should I do? Call my doctor? Look up the nearest testing site? Oh, shoot. What about my weekend plans? Well that would need to be canceled. I wouldn’t dream of taking a chance on giving it to someone else.

     A sip of water, another cough drop. Maybe the cough was settling down.I finally found the thermometer. No fever, 97.4, not even 98.6. 

    Within an hour the cough was gone. I figured pollen must have set off post nasal drip. Not Covid. Maybe this was my do-over, my second chance to be careful.