Last week’s Left Coast Crime was ab-fab, save for the fact that I generated enough contagions to personally infect most of the Mile High City myself.
Achoo! Cough, hack.
My tale of woe began in glorious San Francisco at the end of February. There, my chest and throat tightened with an enthusiasm only known to teenyboppers at their first boy-toy concert. Things got worse each day, but I refused to consider the fact that the discomfort could be because of sickness. No. It was cigarette smoke, humidity, the moon in Cancer . . .
I don’t remember the plane ride home. That was on a Monday. Two nights later, hours before hopping on the plane to go to Denver, I had the shivers. At the same time, my face felt so hot and swollen I thought it might crack and bleed in a dozen different places. But, in the wee hours, the fever broke ( I thought) and I felt substantially better. So, on the plane I went.
In the airport in Denver, waiting for the shuttle, I realized I’d been overly optimistic. Whatever crud had invaded my chest had set up permanent residence. The shivers started again, the hots, the queasy feeling in my tum.
Believe me, I fought. I took Airborne, swabbed Zicam, sucked on Cold-Eeze lozenges and felt like a walking pharmaceutical catalog. I drank only small amounts of scotch medicinally (damnit) to murder the germs holding their own convention in my throat. Bed rest. Bed rest. No fun.
With a deft hand at makeup and sheer determination, I functioned — almost coherently — for most of the con. It was great to spend time visiting bookstores with Alex — and infecting booksellers. I loved seeing friends and making new ones — and infecting them all.
But I missed far more people than I would have liked. Rob, did you really attend? Toni, were you there?
Cough . . . Where’s that tissue?
Was it worth it? Was it wise to push so hard, to force an unwilling body and muddy mind in the name of marketing?
Bottom line: I don’t recommend it.
Which brings me to today’s questions:
What would make you cancel an appearance?
When would you know that it was better to stay home than go?
Gack . . . hack.
Here are just a few of the people I coughed on . . .