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# Meredith C. Carroll Meredith Pro Tem A sick routine
- URL: https://www.smdp.com/meredith-c-carroll-send-comments-to-editor-smdp-com-meredith-pro-tem-a-sick-routine/
- Published: 2008-05-15T15:00:00.000Z
- Updated: 2026-10-25T00:03:33.000Z
- Author: Guest Author
- Tags: Opinion, Santa Monica, #archive-import

ALTHOUGH NOTHING HAS EVER BEEN officially diagnosed, it is a fact that the colds I catch are always much worse than those which afflict the average person.

I managed to escape this winter in perfect health.

Then I go to Disney World last week and in 85-degree heat come down with some nasty virus.

When I’m healthy, I have a mature outlook on being sick.

I give solid medical advice to other people on how they can speed up their recoveries. After all, it would be a shame to let all those years of “ER” watching (the George Clooney era, of course) go to waste.

I always promise myself I won’t be melodramatic if I fall ill, that I’ll take it like a man and keep functioning like a normal human being, but all bets are off at the first signs of a scratchy throat.

The first thing I do when I get sick is head straight to a pharmacy and walk up and down the aisles studying the cold remedies.

I scrutinize the healing powers of each to calculate how many of my own symptoms I can match.

However, few packaged therapies exist that can truly heal me when I ail. My mom’s chicken soup is my No. 1 panacea. I keep a stash of it in the freezer at all times, but at present, the stock is running dangerously low.

And unfortunately, FAA guidelines are such that I’m no longer able to transport any soup back with me when I visit my family. You know, because apparently, I could blow up a plane with a matzoh ball.

So, that means that the only instance in which the remaining soup may be consumed is if my death is imminent.

My cold last week was bad, but even I’ll admit it wasn’t that bad.

Still, I appreciate a good showing of sympathy when I’m sick, so I appreciate my husband’s offers to fetch a helicopter to take me to the hospital, which is a half a mile from our house, whenever I sneeze.

It’s always a good move on his part, but he needs to learn just a bit more about the kind of sympathy I require when I’m sick.

My dad could give him a few pointers. He’s got it down.

He’s not a doctor, he’s never played one on TV, and between an Advil and an anvil, he probably couldn’t determine which would cause a headache and which would cure one. But he’s the best sympathy-giver I know.

It warms my heart every time I call him coughing and sniffling — he immediately tells me I sound awful, and suggests I make a doctor’s appointment immediately, get started on a round of strong anti-biotics and stay home in bed and do nothing but sleep, read and watch movies.

I mean, he gets that for all he knows, I could have contracted some rare and incurable strain of the common cold that will scar me with a red, runny nose and clogged ears for years to come.

My mom, on the other hand, tells me exactly what I never want to hear when I’m sick: “You’re young, you’ll heal,” or “It’s probably a little 24-hour bug,” or “Oh, is that all you have?” or “It’s just a cold.”

As legend has it, I was once sick in the fourth grade and the substitute school nurse determined I should go home instead of infecting other kids.

I had the nurse call my dad to come pick me up.

He was at his office in the city, 40 miles away, and kindly asked the nurse if she would please notify his wife, who was a teacher in the very same school and was likely just down the hall in her classroom. As soon as I heard my mom was to be alerted, I sighed heavily, shrugged off my jacket and slunk back to class.

Beyond sympathy, the most important thing when I’m sick is that I’m well-equipped.

I will only blow my nose with Kleenex Ultra Soft tissues (uncolored and unscented, please). Almond Sunset herbal tea (with honey from one of the little plastic bears) is the sole hot beverage I can tolerate. I will not gargle with salt water.

Blessing me after I’ve sneezed more than twice in a row will only irritate me. I don’t like to be told I’m looking or sounding better when I still feel cruddy.

Miracles performed or attempted in my honor when I’m under the weather are always appreciated.

After all, since my sore throats are so much more sore than anyone else’s, I figure I deserve it.

*Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on May 15, 2008.* [Read the original PDF.](https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/smdp%5Fbackissues/051508.pdf?ref=smdp.com)