Like Clapping for Fairies
My daughter and I drove to Fayetteville one recent Sunday to see Lorraine Hansberry’s A Raisin in the Sun on stage. I noticed my offspring sniffling on the long drive. She attributed her sniffles to allergies, and the fact that she and her husband have been cleaning and painting their bedroom. That’ll do it.
The play was one of the very best productions I’ve seen at Theater Squared—and I’ve seen many. Supremely talented actors. Detailed set and sound, including some details I wasn’t even aware of due to hearing impairment. When one of the characters opened a window on the set, I’m told the audience (except me) could hear traffic noise through the window. And they could hear the flushing of the apartment building’s communal toilet through the wall.
I missed sounds but was rapt with curiosity about the iron plainly plugged into an outlet on the wall of the set. And when Ruth Younger irons the laundry, the clothes come out with creases. Was that iron actually hot?
The following Tuesday, my daughter called to say she’d tested positive for covid.
Oh, poop.
Sure enough, Wednesday morning I had my first symptoms. I drove to my daughter’s to pick up a home test—not wanting to carry covid symptoms into a store. She tossed the kit through the car window—and I went home to test.
Negative.
But Thursday the symptoms worsened. Fever. Achy joints and muscles. Nose running like a faucet. Crickets or birds chirping in my head. So, I called the health unit and explained that I am an old lady who likely has covid and is seeking advice—and maybe a test and some drugs to cure this nasty virus. The nurse I spoke with was gentle and kind, but ultimately told me to call my primary care physician.
I called the clinic where my physician hangs out. But for some reason, much of the resultant conversation was akin to the traffic noise and the toilet flushing in the play. But I got the ultimate message:We have no appointments this week. Go to the walk-in clinic in Eureka.
But I wouldn’t feel right going into the tiny waiting room with these dramatic covid symptoms, even with a mask.
I’d sleep on it.
I woke up at 3 a.m. sneezing like a machine gun. Nose dripping on the sheets. Maybe I should look up the Eureka clinic online. Find out exactly what time they open
Then I researched the drug I was, perhaps, seeking. I am not one to take meds if I don’t have to. I pay close attention to potential side effects. And these were doozies. And if I wasn’t going to take the drug, I didn’t much need to go to the clinic. A positive test wasn’t going to make me feel any better.
I decided to just relax. Quit worrying about it. Even if it might screw up my 70th birthday, which I was planning on celebrating out of town. Who knows? Maybe I’ll have another birthday someday.
Now, you might be reading this on my birthday. In the manner that audiences save the day by clapping for a sick Tinkerbell in Peter Pan, I’m thinking community members could salvage my clumsy entrance into my eighth decade by treating themselves to a theater ticket, watching a phenomenal play, and supporting fabulous theater in NW Arkansas. It would make me feel tons better.
The play is there through September 15. (FYI—the a/c in Theater Squared is hospitable—unlike the Springdale theater I mentioned a couple weeks ago.)