I am writing to you, dear reader, from my death bed. The plague has struck me, and every single ache in my body tells me that this time, I'm probably not going to make it. To put it kindly, I am completely empty of every single fluid. Too much information? Tough.
On a whinier note, I would kill for someone to rub my back. At this point, I would even bargain for an old-fashioned Aunt Charlene style tuck. For those of you that don't know, she likes to tuck the blankets in around your entire body, ensuring that not only will you be warm during the night, but you will also be completely unable to roll, fall of the bed, and die. Alas, I don't have that option. However, my knowledge of anything from the kingdom of Nerd-dom and Science reminds me that any sort of touch would be my final offensive against my body. I want to disorient my enemy. I want to win this one.
What am I saying? That's right, a kiss can make it better. Say, for instance, you fall and bust your knee. The nerve endings that tell your brain, "Hello, idiot, maybe you shouldn't have tried to jump that curb with your bike" can be quieted. Beside those annoying receptors lie receptors for sensing touch. When you were a kiddo and Mommy kissed it and make it better, she wasn't joshin' with ya. That touch can effectively override the pain reception so all you know is that your mom is trying to make you feel better. That's right. Our bodies have built in confusion mechanisms.
Grammy banked on this all the time. When we took pictures as a family, she always found my hand and held it. I can't tell you how many times she let me selfishly wake her up from a nap so she could draw pictures on my back with those favorite olive spotted hands of hers. I find myself wishing for her touch now more than anything else in this world.
And because I'm becoming delirious because of the fever, I'm going to go ahead and stop.
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