‘Tis the season for runny-nosed Tiny Tims to cough tuberculous fomites into my dumbstruck mouth. My head feels like a helium balloon, my throat full of thorns. When I finish this post, I’m dosing up on cold remedies and with any luck I’ll be comatose by midnight.
‘Tis the season for well-meaning patients to shower our office with fudge and cookies and See’s Candy. I love you. I hate you. Don’t you realize I have no self-control?
‘Tis the season for other well-meaning patients to ask, “Are you ready for Christmas?” or “Get all your Christmas shopping done yet?” I know this shouldn’t bother me, but it does. It makes me long for those patients who, with one glance at my swarthy, Semitic good looks, assume I’m tribe. NO, I’m not ready for Christmas, and neither are my atheist son and wife. I’m not even ready for Hanukkah! (You try finding candles here in the boonies.) Something about those questions rankle. They remind me I’m an outsider, a poor bastard who has to rub his fist against frosty windows to view scenes from Norman Rockwell’s wet dreams.
‘Tis the season that gives me the blues.