To: My Cold

From: Your Host

Re: Uncle

04 • 13 • 06

Dear Cold:

Surely a recap of the past two weeks is unnecessary. No need to revisit in this letter the hacking, the aches, the nasal horrors, the thermal roller coaster, the throat like a skinned knee that must somehow find a way to swallow. Since you were there I will spare you redundant descriptions. Suffice it to say, you really did the joint up.

Indeed, once you had strong-armed my body into hosting your event, it was no longer just a matter of your little virus and my various immune responses. No: you had the chutzpah to invite your friends over and before long, my usual allies were leaving in disgust. Acne made a surprise appearance (oh hi!), causing the already put-upon morale to depart unceremoniously. Depression smoked in the driveway, never quite storming the place but menacing enough to scare off some of my more fragile associates: focus, motivation, optimism. Some straight-arrow friends of mine (self-respect, discipline), sensing the place had taken a turn toward chaos, also slinked away, shrugging their regrets as I stood helpless at the door. Hygiene remained only by force. By day three, it was clear that I was no longer calling the shots; you and your friends would leave when you were good and ready. In the meantime, I was welcome to sulk.

Cold, since you specialize in disruption, you may not realize just how unusual the past two weeks have been for me. I assure you: this is not how things normally go. There are certain tendencies, suspended during your stay, that characterize my life when my days are ticking along in their accustomed way. These may include but are not limited to: waking up in a neutral-to-positive frame of mind, thinking, smiling, caring at all what is going on with other people, reading whole pages of text at a time, listening when people speak, and having some inkling that a world exists beyond my own skin and preoccupations. You will no doubt be amused to learn that in my more self-satisfied moments, I have sometimes thought of these tendencies as spokes protruding from the central hub of something called My Character.

Well, Cold. Bravo: you have put the lie to this monumental arrogance of mine with tools no more sophisticated than a rhinovirus and some mucus! It took you about 48 hours to render me sullen, self-absorbed, humourless, dull, cranky, oozy, hopeless. Over the past two weeks you have laid waste not only to my plans and routines, but to my very disposition. They say the veneer of civilization is thin, and that the slightest unrest can bring out the barbarism that lies jut beneath the surface. If civilization is veneer, then my personality, it seems, is a substance so insubstantial as to make the denser gases snicker. The symptoms you provoke should, by rights, fall under the heading of "irritants" rather than "identity-manglers." But it seems I am susceptible, like an unpleasant cousin out of Jane Austen.

You may claim (although you have not demonstrated a flair for encouragement in the past) that it is not so unusual for suffering to change people. It is well known that while a few admirable souls are ennobled by pain, most are diminished. In Alain de Botton's snappy formulation, "Many unhappy syphilitics omit to write their Fleurs du mal and shoot themselves instead." This is fine as far as it goes, but it has little to do with my experiences of the past two weeks. Alas: my own recent suffering has been shot through with the awareness that sneezes and sinus pressure do not even deserve registry in the log book of human pain. Indeed, were a catalogue of my complaints recorded on a napkin, to use it as a bookmark in said encyclopedia of affliction would be an affront to world history. You, Cold, are nothing.

Sure, you may be strong compared to me (see above re Jane Austen) but before you grin that microscopic grin of yours, know this: the world contains illnesses that melt people's organs. The world contains illnesses that cause people to develop all the world's other illnesses. The world contains illnesses that devour people, bloat us, distend us, wither us, hollow us out, make us incomprehensible to others, make others incomprehensible to us, vaporize our memories, blind us, deafen us, immobilize us. (And these are only afflictions of the flesh! The matter of non-clinical heartsickness remains unbroached!) To one who knows true suffering, your powers would be--well. Let's just say it's rare to hear the crucified complain of splinters.

Now, I admit that my pronouncements of your weakness do little to elevate my own character in this sad story. Despite your low ranking among the world's ailments, you have beaten me in straight sets. You're pretty much rubber here, and I'm pretty much glue.

Even so, as my head has grown clearer these past few days, I have begun to feel there may be reason for hope--and not just the giddy hope of breathing through both nostrils. Cold, this matter of my character (see above re negligible film) has got me thinking. Consider: you were successful in laying waste to some of the personal attributes I thought inherent and immutable, not to mention winsome. You, recall, are a tiny bug.

I am a higher primate! My God--if you can banish my charms, surely I can stamp out some foibles? You took verve, cheer, empathy. Might I not send sloth, melancholy, selfishness packing? You heaved enthusiasm, thoughtfulness, curiosity overboard. Might not pettiness, ennui, smugness walk the plank? It took you just days to make me unrecognizable to myself. What might I manage in a year? Ten? Thirty? Why stop at virtue? Time travel! X-ray vision! Movable ears! Telekinesis! Animal languages! Invisibility! Underwater breathing! Esperanto! Pole vault! You have shown me the way: change is possible!

So go ahead, Cold, and tell your friends you laid me low. Tell them it took less than 48 hours for you to dismantle me. Tell them I wished my suffering upon children and the elderly. Tell them I sniveled and begged. Tell them I failed.

Oh but tell them I'm young.

Until next time,

Your Host