Germ Warfare

I read some 1950’s mystery fiction. As we enter flu and cold season, I’ve noticed a difference in the way people back then handled germ warfare.

They went to bed!

Sounds good to me. Evidently they had servants to handle day to day affairs. At my house, servants are noticeably absent.  So I slug some rid-a-flu and keep going.

There weren’t nearly as many antibiotics, and almost no symptom relievers at the time. The kindly doctor made a house call, dispensed what medicine was available, then told them to stay in bed and drink liquids. If they had money, he was paid. If not, he departed with a chicken or homemade jam or a promise.

Now, if I’m feverish or spewing unpleasant things, I probably visit the doctor. She gives me an antibiotic designed to quickly kill the germs. My health plan and I pay a total which my doctor friends tell me is a fraction of what they used to make. They probably wish, sometimes, there was a nice, plump chicken to be had.

I may go home and rest awhile. Or not. I’ll probably telecommute until my boy gets home from school. Then it’s off and running until my husband gets home, when I can usually go to bed. Multiple interruptions are likely, as I am, apparently, the only one in the house who knows where critical things are kept. My daughter will flip on the lights, and demand to know why I’m in bed. She will ignore my subtle hint that she should leave- "Go away, I’m sick!- and recount the various dramas of her life.

In my books, the patient usually recovers. Unless, of course, he or she is helped to his or her reward by a wicked murderer who hopes to pass the death off as natural. I also usually recover, at least partially. But let’s get back to the part where the 50's doctor says go to bed.

Seriously? I don’t have time for that! I pop something to suppress the symptoms and continue with regularly scheduled programming at 95 mph.

Just as soon as I'm physically well enough to dress myself without missing a critical button, and mentally astute enough to open the garage door before I back the car out, I'm back in the game. It’s not generally acknowledged that driving a car under the influence of the flu is as dangerous as driving drunk, so off I go, hacking and weaving. Because my world will fall apart if I'm not there to run it, right?

I share the pain with friends and co-workers, gather some new bugs while my resistance is low, and the next round of germ warfare begins.  But the germs are gaining on me, developing resistance to the antibiotics so freely available.

I’m ready for the days when the local doctor put us to bed, took his chicken and left, confident we’d contain ourselves and our germs until we were well. There’s just one problem I see with going back to this plan:

Where will I find servants to carry on while I’m down? Do you think anyone will still work for homemade cookies?