It's almost Elul, yikes. This means I will soon have to stop working 12 hours a day and begin to think about more important things. Meanwhile, just four weeks left to finish the story of High Holy Days 2009. Where was I? Oh yes, Mr. And Mrs. Loud and Louder. So Rosh Hashanah ended, and I returned to real life. Things were great for a day. But the day after that, not so good: I woke up with a sore throat. Not just your run-of-the-mill pain--I never do things halfway--but the kind that makes you want to rip your tonsils out of your head and pour a gallon of ice down the remaining cavity. I usually ply non-life-threatening illnesses with echinacea or Advil and hope for the best, but this was an urgent situation--I didn't have time to wait for nature to take its course. I refused to accept a replay of 2005.
"Well, it could get better or worse in the next few days," opined the doctor unhelpfully after peering down my throat for a good long ten seconds. This was slightly better news than what a different doctor had told me a few years earlier, but still not so good. "Rest, drink plenty of fluids, and if you can't speak the day before you have to sing, call me. I have a few opera singers as patients. Steroid injection," she added.
I did not want a large needle anywhere near my vocal cords, so decided to find a miracle cure on my own. After scouring Google, I learned that established medical professionals and quacks alike seemed to have great faith in the remedy of gargling with warm salt water every hour on the hour. Even though it made me gag, I set my alarm clock and did so. I drank gallons of liquids and forced myself to sleep 10 hours a night over three days, during which I neither left the house nor spoke on the phone. I was determined to coddle this cold to death--kill it with kindness rather than a predictable OTC poison.
(To be continued.)
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