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Sick

Shel Silverstein

1930 –

1999

“I cannot go to school today,”
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
“I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I’m going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I’ve counted sixteen chicken pox
And there’s one more—that’s seventeen,
And don’t you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut—my eyes are blue—
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I’m sure that my left leg is broke—
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button’s caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle’s sprained,
My ’pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb.
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow’s bent, my spine ain’t straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is—what?
What’s that? What’s that you say?
You say today is . . . Saturday?
G’bye, I’m going out to play!”

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I’m sharing this poem called “Sick” for two simple reasons:

1. I am, in fact, sick. My nose is a leaky faucet, my head feels like it’s full of packing peanuts, and I’ve spent more time this morning debating if a soup thermos is a socially acceptable form of personal luggage than actually working. I’m not sick from working too hard, mind you, because I absolutely adore my job; this is a pure, unadulterated case of old age just taking its toll on me. I’m 100% here for the job, but my body is clearly over the whole “youthful vigor” thing. This is what you get for being born before the internet was a household name—your body just starts to rebel.
2. I love the poetry of Shel Silverstein, a man who truly understood the beautiful chaos of the world. While I aspire to his genius, my current state of being has only unlocked the creativity needed to arrange used tissues into a small, sad sculpture.

Being sick hasn’t enhanced my writing ability, nor has it added any thought of creativity. I’m just here, powered by a cocktail of caffeine and decongestants, coping and moving forward. Wish me luck. Or send soup. I’ll take either.