Incapacitated.

Last weekend, March 21st to be exact, was my younger grandson's first birthday and my wife and I dutifully fired up our 1966 Simca 1500 and drove up to Boston--about two hours from the Gingham Coast--where my elder daughter and her family live.

We did the usual grandparent stuff. Bought too many toys, too many books, too much clothing and played too many games with our grandkids. The little one's birthday party was on Sunday, March 22, and by that time he was in the throes of what seemed to be a cold. But like my own daughters--and my wife, for that matter--my grandkids are troupers and the show--in this case a birthday party for about 30 must go on. There was a $189 cake to eat and pizza from one of Boston's finest pizzerias.

By the time we arrived home early Sunday evening, I felt like I had caught a cannonball in my chest. I could scarcely breathe and as the night went on I became increasing lightheaded. That's ok, I guess. Who wants a heavy-head?

Of course, as stated above, the show must go on, and I refused to take seriously any intimations of my own mortality. I talked to clients. I did a decent amount of work. I hocked a few people who owe me money. Most important, I got an SOW signed by a new client. It's not the most money in the world. But still, I can't think of another agency who signs clients who find him--all without a song and a dance and a pitch.

By the time Wednesday rolled around, I was in full physical, intestinal, equilibrial and muscular-skeletal arrears. My head-ached like a holding company spread sheet. I had a cough like Vesuvius and no matter what I did I couldn't position myself in any way so as to mitigate the pain and discomfort I was in.

By Friday morning, my wife had finally prevailed and I consented to go to a local emergency room. In short order the Physician's Assistant prescribed Tamiflu and in just a few hours the local CVS had filled my scrip.

I had a notion--a wrong one--that a lot of the wonder drugs knock out illnesses at first blush. Apparently though, I let Flu A gestate for way too long and it had a powerful grip on nearly every sensitive bit of my corpus, which includes my soul, which I so often over look.

It's rare for me to feel mentally and physically incompetent. But this week I couldn't write, I couldn't think, I couldn't even worry. Or, I couldn't even worry about anything except maybe dying, which frankly would have been a welcome relief. As for my physicality, while I usually walk about seven miles a day--rain or shine, over the past week, I averaged about seven yards a day. 

With good intentions I'd try to walk Sparkle, but I'd make it only to the front gate before I'd feel short of breath and woozy. 

I can't one-hundred percent resolve if David Lean did better capturing my teeter in his great 1954 movie "Hobson's Choice," with Charles Laughton. Or if that recognition should go to F.W. Murnau in his 1924 epic "The Last Laugh," featuring Emil Jannings.

In all, I suppose I feel about 79% healed. Though I'm still seeing the world with Dutch Angles.

You could do worse.