Granny Mary comforts the afflicted

‘If It’s Not COVID, Am I Really Sick?’

I want sympathy, dammit

Send Granny Mary your questions in the comments here or email directly. Here’s one that was left on Granny Mary’s answering machine.

Dear Granny Mary: Two weeks ago I had a unicycle accident. It was pretty bad. The pavement in front of the school ripped off a fingernail, and then, from the cuticle, peeled a strip of skin up my arm, across my chest, through a nipple and then over to the other arm, where it stopped at my Sisyphus tattoo. Ouchie!

I cleaned it off with an old scrubby on the kitchen sink, but somehow it still got infected. Now I’ve got gangrene and the infection has gotten into my blood. I can feel it moving slowly towards my heart, like the broken tip of a morgul blade.

I’m in the hospital. They thought if they amputated the arm I might be okay — if they can get close enough to the shoulder! So, I was optimistic.

But today, the whole procedure was put on hold because I started coughing. Turns out I have MRSA! The doctor told me they’re going to wait to see if the MRSA kills me before they waste any more resources. “It only makes sense,” he said, “You understand.” I was disappointed. He tried to cheer me up.

“Dude,” he said, “Look on the bright side. Your COVID test is totally negative.”

Now, I don’t know. Granny Mary, am I really sick? If it’s not COVID does it count? I would hate for someone to think I was lollygagging, malingering, or gold-bricking. That would be awful. Thanks in advance. I’ll hang up and trim the necrotic tissue off my elbow and listen to your answer! — signed, I-swear-to-God-I’m-sick-stop-looking-at-me-that-way

P.S., The hospital bill is also a problem. Please advise.

Hello! Let’s put one of those worries right out of your head. If you do end up dying, they can harvest your body for parts, which will cover the bill. Also, if you die, everyone will know that you were genuinely ill. That’ll show ‘em! The waves of sympathy directed towards you — though you won’t feel them because you’ll be dead — will warm the hearts of your loved ones. Or one. If there is one.

If you live, though — I think you’re pretty screwed. You’ll walk around with one arm conspicuously waving for attention, and everyone will see right through it. You’ll tell them about the accident. They won’t care.

“You brought this on yourself,” they’ll say. “And what were you doing riding a unicycle, anyway?”

They’ll go on. “You want sympathy? I suppose you think we should have sympathy for people shot in a war zone? Dogs marked for euthanasia? Kids on superfund sights who get leukemia? Where does it end?”

It’s a slippery slope, my friend. Empathize with one sad sack and you have to empathize with all of them. Do that, and soon enough you’re singing the “Internationale,” accompanying yourself on the balalaika, and waiting on interminably long lines for tickets to Звездные войны, episode 9.

Best hope is that you do, in fact, catch COVID. The local news might do a segment, or maybe someone will cobble together a Lifetime Channel movie. Those guys always need content.

One side note. You mention damage to the nipple. I hope you’ll seek professional help or reconstructive surgery for that. As Ernest Hemingway showed in The Sun Also Rises, a novel about losing a nipple — “The wound! the wound!” — this sort of trauma can hang around. But help is available. You’ll be fine.

Or you’ll die. It isn’t awful. I just wouldn’t start bingeing any long series on PBS.org until you sort it out.

Thanks to Amy Sea, Carol Lennox, and Susan Brearley for the encouragement!