Last Updated on July 1, 2023
He and my pretty aunt would return home for a visit every year or two. During one visit, I overheard a family conversation in which, I sensed, a difficult decision was at stake: Should my uncle accept a job in the “interior?” The work would be strenuous and dangerous, but the pay would be high.
The “interior?” No one explained it, but I envisioned uncut jungle, unbearable heat, oppressive humidity, shrouds of dark green. Exotic bird calls. Huge caterpillars. Snakes hanging/dripping everywhere. The “interior.” Both the word and the imagery have stuck with me all these years.
Six days ago, a particularly nasty flu invaded my personal interior, my bodily territory – dark, hot, strangely populated. The virus – no more than mindless bits of sneaky DNA – gained its first foothold in my chest. At first, the symptom was just a little cough, but it grew more persistent and irrepressible by the hour. My powers of denial are strong. At first, I dismissed the unwelcomed evidence of sickness, or I found excuses for its growing reality. But the evil little enemy was freely traveling my interior space so rapidly now that I could barely track its rampage. It soon established new frontiers of attack, raking my throat, jamming my sinuses, stuffing my nose, plugging my ears, hammering my head. It insinuated itself in the lubricated linings of my joints, causing excruciating pain in hips and shoulders. A full-scale war had been waged.
At times like this, my inclination is to quietly invoke the power of suggestion. Like mind over matter. Like biofeedback. At times like this, I become the self-appointed commander-in-chief for the protection of my own body. I mobilize my troops, call up my reserves, and by sheer dint of will and imagination, I deploy them to the frontlines. These defenses are, of course, my own immune system. I urge their multiplication and facilitate their march toward the foe. They are my foot soldiers and I love them. I recline, I rest, eyes closed, conserving all available energy for their use. I am confident of their ability, and my confidence only serves to stimulate their performance. Many gladly die for me, and I am grateful for their sacrifice.
The war in my interior is fierce. It continues for three days at an even draw before I detect the slightest shift in the balance of power. I dare to hope that my defensive posture might ascend to the offensive. If I could scream a battle cry, I would; but that would require an extravagant expenditure of energy and might deprive my fighters of the oxygen they need.
On the fourth day, my nose and sinuses finally begin to clear. I lend support by blowing – admittedly a gross and macro tactic, but I think it helps. The headache and joint pains also begin to dissipate. I help with Tylenol – chemical warfare, yes, but my guys don’t object. We are routing the teeny devils from these secondary sites. The original stronghold in my chest remains under relentless raid. I cough long and hard to dislodge the gunk and goo of enemy campsites which are firmly embedded in bronchial branches and twigs.
Even as the combat rages in my chest, an altogether different kind of active duty
is needed elsewhere in the landscape of my interior: Clean Up. Trash Removal. Garbage Collection. Debris Sweeping. Without instruction, these unified special forces assemble themselves to envelop all manner of organic detritus and haul it away. As they do so, I see my recovery on the horizon – if not speedy, then soon.
This conflict began with coughing – small but annoying. It will conclude with coughing –
growling, thunderous, rib-rattling, crackling, crushing. Bubbles and squeaks and rattles in each aftermath. Mini interior landmines explode and disperse. Witnesses standing within earshot gape with alarm and withdraw to safer distance. But I know that each convulsive bout of coughing delivers me a step closer to health.
Slowly, I re-acquaint with more civilized activities of life like eating, bathing, texting. The cleaning detail continues its important work without fanfare or glory while the aggressive intruders are losing their final grip even as I write. The cough will linger but not for too much longer. My siege mentality recedes. Reporting from the interior…
Julie Helms