Sick in a Hotel Room

Sick in a hotel room.

I will spare you the details. But it was a gross night and early morning.

I pulled myself together and went to the front desk around 4 AM.

“Yes, ma’am, how may I help you?”

“I have a terribly bad headache. Where can I buy some Excedrin or Advil… or anything?” I’ll even take addictive and illegal at this point. Just, please help.

He said “Well, we do have a 7/11 across the street.”

I’m not sure what expression I gave him. Maybe nothing. I may have done absolutely nothing in response to the invitation walk outside in my jamms, in 18 degrees, cross the street, find the 7/11, find the aisle for medication, buy it, and then trek the four miles back to my bed. I think that left me speechless.

In the absence of my response, he said, “We do have some things back here in the office. I’ll look for you.” He came back with four little packets of off-brand meds, pills called “PainAid” or “TabuFix.”

In my desperate thanks, I didn’t leave any bodily fluids on his front desk.

Here’s the irony: I’ve taken these couple of days for personal rest. And so I guess I’m really going to do that very thing.

(Sometimes I cheat and write a few chapters in the name of sitting still.)

Not today. A friend and I have been discussing the challenges and merits of a Sabbath of single parents. Looks like I have one – hand-wrapped and delivered.