Authors: Toni Bernhard,Sylvia Boorstein
How to Be Sick (3 page)
1
Getting Sick: A Romantic Trip to Paris
Paris ain’t much of a town.
—BABE RUTH
AT THE END OF AUGUST 2001, I was to begin my twentieth year as a law professor at the University of California at Davis. To celebrate and to treat ourselves, Tony and I decided to go on a special vacation. Surfing the Internet, I found a studio apartment to rent in Paris at a reasonable rate. We were not world travelers: a trip to Paris was a big deal for us. For three weeks, we’d immerse ourselves in the life and culture of the City of Lights. We were going to have a great time.
At the airport things got off to an inauspicious start. As we sat in our seats on the United Airlines commuter flight from Sacramento to Los Angeles, where we would change to a direct flight to Charles de Gaulle, we noticed the plane wasn’t backing away from the gate. Soon came the announcement of an equipment problem delaying our takeoff. Tony and I realized we weren’t going to make the Los Angeles flight to Paris if we continued to sit there.
While others onboard chatted about what was going on, we quickly got up, grabbed our carry-ons (all we ever take), and headed for the United Airlines check-in counter. Because we’d acted so swiftly, the agent was able to get us on a TWA flight just about to depart for St. Louis. From there, we could change to a non-stop TWA flight to Charles de Gaulle, arriving about the same time as we’d originally planned. Like characters on a TV commercial, we ran down the concourse to the TWA boarding gate, our carry-ons in tow. The flight had already boarded but they let us on.
Once off the ground, we praised ourselves. We’d been so much smarter than the other passengers. By the time we left the United Airlines counter with our TWA tickets in hand, those who’d been on the commuter flight had formed a long line behind us. Ah, pride. “Caution, caution,” the Buddha would have said, but at that moment we were so pleased with ourselves for deftly averting a disastrous beginning to our special vacation. Several doctors have told us the odds are high that on one of these two TWA flights I picked up the virus from which I have never recovered.
We arrived at our studio apartment on the tiny
Rue du Vieux Colombier
in the sixth arrondissement on the Left Bank. The apartment was much smaller than it had looked in the online pictures. It consisted of a bathroom and a kitchen, each of which could be comfortably occupied by only one person at a time, and a living room. It was furnished with a tiny table and two chairs, a loveseat (a romantic euphemism for a couch that’s too small to lie down on), and a double bed in the corner. On the wall opposite the bed sat a bookshelf with a cabinet at the bottom. We found a tiny television set inside, but we had no intention of spending our time in Paris watching TV.
Rue du Vieux Colombier
in the sixth arrondissement on the Left Bank. The apartment was much smaller than it had looked in the online pictures. It consisted of a bathroom and a kitchen, each of which could be comfortably occupied by only one person at a time, and a living room. It was furnished with a tiny table and two chairs, a loveseat (a romantic euphemism for a couch that’s too small to lie down on), and a double bed in the corner. On the wall opposite the bed sat a bookshelf with a cabinet at the bottom. We found a tiny television set inside, but we had no intention of spending our time in Paris watching TV.
We wandered around that first day, waiting for nightfall so we could sleep and adjust to the new time zone. The next day, I felt awful but assumed it was only jet lag. The day after that, I still felt bad but, refusing to believe it could be anything other than lingering jet lag, suggested we go to a movie. We picked an American film,
Anniversary Party
. Frankly, I just wanted to sit in the dark and try to assess what was going on in my body. While watching the movie I began to realize that I was indeed sick.
Anniversary Party
. Frankly, I just wanted to sit in the dark and try to assess what was going on in my body. While watching the movie I began to realize that I was indeed sick.
Soon thereafter, I developed typical flu symptoms and couldn’t get out of bed. After three days, Tony and I reached the same hopeful conclusion: “This is no big deal. We still have eighteen days left in Paris.”
After a week, it became: “No big deal, we still have two weeks left in Paris.”
“. . .we still have ten days left in Paris.”
The “days left” dwindled and dwindled.
We developed a routine. In the morning, Tony would go to a
brasserie
and then walk the streets of Paris, returning around noon, always hoping for a change in my condition. Then he’d go out in the afternoon for more walking. Maybe he would take in a museum. He was not enjoying these solo excursions.
brasserie
and then walk the streets of Paris, returning around noon, always hoping for a change in my condition. Then he’d go out in the afternoon for more walking. Maybe he would take in a museum. He was not enjoying these solo excursions.
During the second week of our stay, I so badly wanted to keep Tony company that I decided one day to tough it out. I insisted we go to see the famous Impressionist collection at the Musée d’Orsay, which was converted from a train station and is known for its soaring interior spaces. The line to get in went around the block. Right then and there, we would have returned to the apartment had I not done my research and known to buy museum passes in the Métro. Under the assumption we’d be museum-hopping together, Tony had bought two passes on our second day in Paris. We were allowed inside immediately.
As soon as I entered the Impressionist gallery, the adrenaline I’d used to get myself there wore off—this excursion had been a mistake. I collapsed into one of the lovely wicker chairs that sit in rows in the middle of the bigger galleries and told Tony to go ahead and enjoy the paintings. He would periodically come back and check on me, asking if we should leave, but I kept telling him to go off and look for a while longer.
As I sat, my eyes lit on a large painting by Claude Monet,
Essai de figure en plein-air: Femme a l’ombrelle tournee vers la droite.
A woman stands in a field, her face shaded by her umbrella. It’s painted with a soft, muted palette, yet is somehow wonderfully luminous. I was vaguely aware of musical wicker chairs going on around me—people would sit for a few minutes, get up and be quickly replaced by someone who had been waiting to take the first free chair. I just sat, bathed in the colors and the composition on Monet’s canvas. I felt as if he’d painted this young woman in a field to watch over me so I could let Tony experience the museum. But my attempt at keeping him company had failed.
Essai de figure en plein-air: Femme a l’ombrelle tournee vers la droite.
A woman stands in a field, her face shaded by her umbrella. It’s painted with a soft, muted palette, yet is somehow wonderfully luminous. I was vaguely aware of musical wicker chairs going on around me—people would sit for a few minutes, get up and be quickly replaced by someone who had been waiting to take the first free chair. I just sat, bathed in the colors and the composition on Monet’s canvas. I felt as if he’d painted this young woman in a field to watch over me so I could let Tony experience the museum. But my attempt at keeping him company had failed.
Except to see a doctor, that was the end of going out. My days were spent in bed. Too sick to read, I thought I’d try the little television after all. I was shocked at the poor quality of French programming: every channel had the worst kind of quiz show, featuring contestants who’d been coached to scream on cue, loud-mouthed obnoxious hosts, and the gaudiest of sets. In my naïveté, I was expecting high French culture to emanate from the tube. I gave up in frustration, but as the hours wore on, and I was still bored and restless, I tried TV again. I heard familiar theme music, actors were running around pushing a gurney, and on the screen the word “
Emerges
” appeared. Even with my poor French, I knew this was “ER.” I settled in for some televised comfort food, only to find it was dubbed into French. Even movies were dubbed instead of subtitled. So much for that.
Emerges
” appeared. Even with my poor French, I knew this was “ER.” I settled in for some televised comfort food, only to find it was dubbed into French. Even movies were dubbed instead of subtitled. So much for that.
I spent most of each day and many a night when I was too sick to sleep listening to the BBC on a short-wave radio Tony bought for me when it was clear I’d be in bed for a while. The BBC had a wonderful array of programs, including clever and funny quiz shows. It became my introduction to our own National Public Radio (NPR), which I began listening to every day soon after returning to Davis and finding myself bed-bound. When I’m listening to NPR’s broadcast of the BBC News and I hear the plumy tones of the very same British voice that came over the short wave radio in our Paris apartment announcing, “You’re listening to the BBC World Service,” a tinge of sadness passes over me. I’m briefly transported back to that bed on the Left Bank where it all began.
A few days after the trip to the Musée d’Orsay, we decided I should see a doctor. I looked in the yellow pages and found an entry for “the American Hospital.” Even though the name suggested home and a refuge for me, the person who answered the phone was just plain rude. When I described my symptoms, she gruffly said, “Well, what do you want
us
to do about it?” It was a harbinger of things to come.
us
to do about it?” It was a harbinger of things to come.
I tried “the British Hospital.” The woman who answered the phone only spoke French, but I heard concern and kindness in her voice. She put me on hold while she found a nurse who spoke English. She told me to come right in.
I still shake my head in disbelief when I think of the unnecessary stress we subjected ourselves to getting from our apartment on the Left Bank to the British Hospital in a northern suburb of Paris, and thereafter to a pharmacy in central Paris, and then finally back to the Left Bank. Whew! Typical Californians, we never considered taking a cab. We weren’t being cheap; it just didn’t cross our minds. We think of cabs as something New Yorkers use. Foolishly, we walked from our apartment to the nearest Métro stop. Two transfers and several staircases later, we found ourselves above ground in an altogether different sort of Paris—the suburbs. Walking along with our map at hand, we made agonizingly slow progress. Even this small excursion was wearing me out.
The doctor thought I simply had the flu. She wrote down my diagnosis as
grippe
—a word that’s always made me think of the rhyme for “post-nasal drip” in Adelaide’s song from
Guys and Dolls
. She wanted to be sure it didn’t turn into a bacterial infection that would ruin our whole vacation, so she gave me a prescription for antibiotics. We trekked back to the Métro and, after another transfer and more stairs, surfaced above ground at the only open pharmacy between the northern suburb and our Left Bank apartment, since it was one of those European days off intriguingly called a bank holiday.
grippe
—a word that’s always made me think of the rhyme for “post-nasal drip” in Adelaide’s song from
Guys and Dolls
. She wanted to be sure it didn’t turn into a bacterial infection that would ruin our whole vacation, so she gave me a prescription for antibiotics. We trekked back to the Métro and, after another transfer and more stairs, surfaced above ground at the only open pharmacy between the northern suburb and our Left Bank apartment, since it was one of those European days off intriguingly called a bank holiday.
The hospital and pharmacy ordeal is a haze in my mind, although a few vivid memories remain. I recall the hospital staff continually apologizing because, since it was a bank holiday, they had to charge us for the appointment—a whopping $15.00 when converted from francs to dollars. I recall surfacing from the Métro to go to the pharmacy and finding myself face to face with a postcard-picture view of the Arc de Triomphe, the tiniest flash of the Paris we’d hoped for. I also remember the agony I felt as I leaned against the wall in the Métro stairwells, using both hands on the banister to pull my body up step after step. Tony told me, years later, that when he saw me dragging my body up the stairs, he realized how sick I was. That’s
his
vivid memory of that day.
his
vivid memory of that day.
Our last week in Paris, I discovered that the French Open was on TV all day long. Tennis was something where language didn’t matter. Even I could figure out that “
égalité
” meant “deuce.” I made a bed for myself on the floor, close enough to the TV to be able to see the ball being hit over the net, and a love affair was born. I still watch a lot of tennis. I can recite the names of players from all over the world. I love how international tennis is. I love the aesthetics of the game—complexity within seeming simplicity. All a player has to do is get the ball over the net, inside the lines. But within that seeming simplicity lies an array of strategies—physical and mental—that has the feel of a chess game: aces, lobs, volleys, luring your opponent into the net so as execute a passing shot. As I lay there learning to love watching tennis, it seemed I might be getting better. I was deeply disappointed that our vacation had been ruined, but I was hopeful.
égalité
” meant “deuce.” I made a bed for myself on the floor, close enough to the TV to be able to see the ball being hit over the net, and a love affair was born. I still watch a lot of tennis. I can recite the names of players from all over the world. I love how international tennis is. I love the aesthetics of the game—complexity within seeming simplicity. All a player has to do is get the ball over the net, inside the lines. But within that seeming simplicity lies an array of strategies—physical and mental—that has the feel of a chess game: aces, lobs, volleys, luring your opponent into the net so as execute a passing shot. As I lay there learning to love watching tennis, it seemed I might be getting better. I was deeply disappointed that our vacation had been ruined, but I was hopeful.
The day before we were scheduled to fly home, I felt I was on the road to recovery.
2
Staying Sick: This Can’t Be Happening to Me
You can argue with the way things are.
You’ll lose, but only 100% of the time.
—BYRON KATIE
A WEEK AFTER RETURNING, I HAD A RELAPSE. Then once again, I seemed to get better except, strangely, my voice didn’t return. This new whisper of a voice was troublesome because, as a professor, I made my living by talking. With the law school semester starting at the end of August, I talked to the dean in early July about my concerns, but he was confident I’d be fine by then. We agreed not to worry.
Feeling stronger and stronger, in mid-July, I went ahead with plans to go on a ten-day meditation retreat at Spirit Rock Meditation Center, in Marin County, north of San Francisco, about two hours from my home. This was a treasured annual retreat for Buddhist practitioners on the West Coast because the two principal teachers—Joseph Goldstein and Sharon Salzberg—had, along with Jack Kornfield, brought
vipassana
meditation to the United States after intensive training by teachers in Thailand, Burma, and India. They founded the Insight Meditation Society (IMS) in Barre, Massachusetts, which instantly became a mecca for Americans who wanted to learn to meditate. Some years later, Jack moved to California and, along with other vipassana teachers, founded Spirit Rock. Once a year, Joseph and Sharon, along with other IMS teachers, led a ten-day retreat at Spirit Rock, a retreat so popular that one could only get in through a lottery system. Except for my whisper of a voice, I appeared to be over what my doctor now humorously called “the Parisian Flu.” And, besides, one doesn’t
need
a voice on a silent retreat. This year, Carol Wilson, Kamala Masters, and Steve Armstrong—all wonderful meditation teachers—accompanied Joseph and Sharon. I thought, “Lucky, lucky me.”
vipassana
meditation to the United States after intensive training by teachers in Thailand, Burma, and India. They founded the Insight Meditation Society (IMS) in Barre, Massachusetts, which instantly became a mecca for Americans who wanted to learn to meditate. Some years later, Jack moved to California and, along with other vipassana teachers, founded Spirit Rock. Once a year, Joseph and Sharon, along with other IMS teachers, led a ten-day retreat at Spirit Rock, a retreat so popular that one could only get in through a lottery system. Except for my whisper of a voice, I appeared to be over what my doctor now humorously called “the Parisian Flu.” And, besides, one doesn’t
need
a voice on a silent retreat. This year, Carol Wilson, Kamala Masters, and Steve Armstrong—all wonderful meditation teachers—accompanied Joseph and Sharon. I thought, “Lucky, lucky me.”
It was during this retreat that the Parisian Flu turned from acute to chronic. Eerily, I have it documented, although at the time I didn’t know I was describing symptoms that would still be with me years and years later. I’d taken a notebook with me to jot down tidbits from the teachers’ talks. It was not intended to be a daily diary, but what was happening to me was too curious not to keep track of. On Monday morning (the third day of the retreat), I wrote, “Woke up feeling sick. Am worried is same stuff again. Determined to stay here even if can only go to Dharma talks.”
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