Good Epidemics Produce Even Better Epitaphs

Well, it finally happened. After 94 years, the Spanish Flu epidemic of 1918 has hit our apartment. <morbid laugh>

In all likelihood, the illness was likely spread to the apartment through a recent episode of an engrossing British television drama that shall remain nameless, in which, just when the beloved men and women of Downton Abbey think their troubles and WWI are over, poor sweet Lavinia falls prey to the disastrous global influenza pandemic, encouraging her beloved fiance Matthew (who has just regained the use of his limbs which were badly paralyzed on the battle field) to marry Mary (who's about to marry a psycho journalist tycoon whose only saving grace is that he rescued her family and reputation from certain ruin after a Turkish diplomat died in their house in the midst of an affair-esque escapade with Mary) because she knew he was secretly in love with her the whole time, which causes Matthew to fall into a depressively guilty stupor, causing viewers the world over to wonder whether he will do us the honor of committing suicide before things get any worse...

And the next thing you know, The Roommate and I are feeling feverish and clammy, and slightly sick to our stomachs. This is not surprising to me, since several times, now, I've caught the early stages of tuberculosis from many a Russian novel (The Chekhov strains of tuberculosis are much easier to bear than that of Tolstoy or especially Dostoevsky). What can I say, I'm a sucker for artistically transmitted diseases (ATDs). But The Roommate's weak constitution and hopelessly enabling codependent tendencies made her an easy prey to fall victim to the Spanish Flu, and although I quickly recovered from my bout with the Downton strain of H1N1, The Roommate quickly succumbed. Within hours, the apartment was transformed into a nursing ward, and what I hoped would be a dramatic death vigil with a hopeful twist of life and recovery at the end.

Sensing my opportunity, I began to intervene, using my expertise as a self-certified death coach.

First, I tried my best to make The Roommate comfortable. I made her some of my famous raw ginger infusion. I went out and bought some ginger ale and gatorade to help with dehydration. I set her up in the living room with pillows, blankets and a cup of water with a straw. She quickly dozed off, waking periodically to run to the bathroom or complain about how she felt.

At a certain point, I felt her awakenings were becoming more and more... shall we say... stuporous. That is not a word, the spell check informs me, but upon my word, her awakenings were positively stuporous. Meaning she was in a stupor more than she was awake.

"Dearest Roommate," I pulled the chair up to the death-- er-- sickbed. "I think it's time you got your affairs in order."

"MMmm..." The roommate gurgled. It was either a stomach-full-of-stomach-acid gurgle, or the death rattle. One can never be too careful with this type of thing.

"I think you should start thinking of... Well... Your assets," I glowered, spitting the words out and staring at Lucy who sat smugly. Yes, she had just heard me refer to her as an asset, but it had to be done. "As your death coach, I'd like to do you the favor of drawing up your will--just in case."

"What?"  The Roommate opened her eyes.

"Look, nearly three percent of the world's population died of the Spanish flu--and most of them were young adults just like you. Read about it on wikipedia. I just think we need to face the facts."

"What year is it?" The Roommate asked, her eyes narrowing. It was better--or rather worse--than I thought, if she was that delirious.

"2012," I told her, pulling my legal pad out from behind me.

"My point exactly," The Roommate said, her words coming out of her mouth as firey as her fever. "Get with the times, Cole. And then get me some more ginger ale."

"Hey, people die of influenza everyday. You think that just because you were born in a certain century, it makes you immune? When influenza strikes, there's no looking back. You just have to look forward. And pretty much what you're looking forward to right now is the possibility of death. Frankly, I just want to be clear: if you die, I'm not taking Lucy. So we better write up your will right now, because as soon as your heart stops beating, I'm washing my hands of that tyrant."

The Roommate stared at me.

"I think this whole death coach thing has gone to your head," she glared.

"Famous last words," I glared right back. As a death coach, I have learned that people often try to avoid their impending demise, and the only way to get through to them is to face them head on with the unyielding reality of mortality.

"Well, if you really want to write up a will for me, I bequeath all my vomit to you," she smiled. "I'd like you to start a trust fund with it. For future generations of death coaches."

I wrote it down on the legal pad, finally we were getting somewhere. When I looked up again, The Roommate was sleeping. This is what I mean about codependence--it's like The Roommate is addicted to denial.

"You know, I have virtually no recollection of the last few days," The Roommate commented a few mornings later as we were sitting at breakfast. It was the first time she had gotten up from the couch to eat a full meal. "I don't even remember you cooking or bringing me water or anything--it's like I was just somewhere else."

Addicted to denial indeed, I thought, as I looked at the legal pad sitting on the coffee table. Lucy was sitting on top of it, her tail twitching as she stared at me knowingly. It's a shame there were no cat flu pandemics in 1918, because I think Lucy would be a really good candidate if they were taking volunteers.