What is it about being sick that reduces us, especially men, to a childlike state?
Last week, I could feel something had breached my anti-bacterial defenses. Unlike my other Tuskegee Experiment conspiracy-theorist friends, I had actually gotten a flu shot, but I knew that did not give me full protection. When you work in education and work around students who are always in various stages of contagion, you have to be prepared.
I quickly descended upon my neighborhood drugstore and stocked up on all the basics: Zinc, Theraflu, DayQuil, NyQuil, tea, ginger ale, Kleenex and a myriad of daytime cold and flu tablets.
Side note: Exactly when did the sick turn into crime suspects? All the medicine in drugstores is on lockdown, and I had to show proof of ID. I could purchase a hunter’s knife, rope, tape, chloroform and a copy of Serial Killer’s Digest and no one would bat an eye — but purchasing a box of cold medicine gets me the third degree. Go figure!
I made my way home with my arsenal of contemporary cold remedies. I sat in bed in my congested state, and I’m not sure if it was the cold medicine or my rapidly advancing childlike manner, but I began to wax nostalgic for my grandmother and her homemade remedies.
When I was younger, my grandmother had a very interesting healing ritual. One cough at night would set her in motion. I would try and muffle my cough into the pillow, but her bionic hearing would always reveal that there was someone in need.
After identifying the sick party, she would rush into the room with her tray of hot water, tea, ointments and other concoctions. The steam and the soft light from the other room created this vision of a mystical Southern version of Marie Laveau, high priestess of home cures.
Her ritual started with a spoonful of castor oil, which you had to swallow quickly to deal with the smell and taste. The oil also had the added benefit of disorienting you for the next stage of her rituals. She slipped a thermometer under your tongue to take your temperature … and also to ensure you did not spit out the nasty castor oil.
You were then stripped of your pajama top and your chest was slathered and coated like a Butterball turkey with Vicks Vapor Rub. She would even place a few globs under your nostrils. She then made you down a cup of lemon honey tea spiked with whatever dark liquor was on hand.
The last part of the ritual was to wrap you up tightly under a mound of covers. So you lay there in the dark sweating and panting from both the weight and effects of the Vicks Vapor Rub as you slipped into a whiskey-spiked-tea-induced state of slumber. But the next morning, you always felt better when she checked in on you.
So as I lay there surrounded by all my modern remedies, I had to ask myself what really triggers this childhood state of nostalgia when I am sick? Maybe, I truly miss my grandmother’s healing rituals. Maybe I miss the feeling and comfort of someone and something familiar when I am not feeling my best and vulnerable. Or maybe it could just be the whiskey … smile.
Please share your old-school healing remedies or stories.
