I’m shivering under a scalding shower, trying to fight the fever with fire. The pyrexic mind is a toxic place, an environment that should never be trusted. But I only know this when my temperature is below 100 degrees. As water pours onto my head and neck, I ruminate on the prospects of my memoir, a project three years in the making. It’s becoming apparent I should scrap the book and call up my psychiatry buddy in California that’s always sending me job offers. I drain all the hot water from the tank, then migrate back to the couch, where my cat soon joins me, perching on its top, staring into my soul, saying without saying, “You’re better than this. C’mon man. Don’t let the fever break you.” I nod, then say without saying, “Okay, I’ll keep the faith. And reevaluate things on the other side.” Eventually, I’m saved by the acetaminophen calvary and I drift to sleep.
Twelve hours later, auburn light slats onto the bed. Wind leans on the wall behind my head, whistles through the vents on the roof. The warm, lemony scent of my wife’s baking saturates the air. My forehead’s misty, my t-shirt’s damp. The fever has broken. The worst of the cold has passed.
After days with little choice, I’m overwhelmed as I sit up on the side of the bed. It appears I can now stand, walk, talk. I sense the rumble of an appetite. I feel the desire to experience sunlight. What should I do? The question has me giddy at the possibilities.
Somehow, despite my consistent desire while ill to not be ill because being ill is setting back my productivity goals, I find myself closer now to where I want to be, like I’ve been lifted off an errant trail and set upon a truer course. It feels like all the doubt, the fever dreams, were part and parcel. I know what I want to do next.
I walk downstairs, fill a glass of water and grab my laptop. And I get back to writing.
To livin’ a life we love,
Ryan Fightmaster, MD
