I haven’t seen any flowers around, though it’s the early spring, though the weather turns almost 70 degrees today. Yet I have the allergy. It’s a sore throat, mild, not bothering me except when swallowing, not getting better or worse but not going away, for a week by now. At first I didn’t know it’s allergy, but a phone call to a friend–who’s lucky enough to live in Flushing, New York, unlike the unlucky me who’s stuck in the dreary uneventful New Jersey–made it all clear. She has had the allergy for a number of years each spring and she’s had it since a week ago.
Not knowing I am having allergy, I asked her if I have cold, flu, or the dreaded new virus with an unpronounceable name–without an easy name, there’s an unwillingness to describe and to analyze, which has to be overcome at first. She’s a nurse, full of common sense, and can always interpret things in the most simple and practical way. I wondered if I should go to have a test. She said one of her colleagues suspects that she has the new virus, but the hospital refuses to give her a test. Only people who are running a high fever, with uncontrollable cough or even pneumonia are entitled to a test. “Even if you have a fever, I would say you stay at home. A doctor’s office is the best place to get infected.” She said, which is sound advice, I think.
I remembered the 1988 hepatitis A epidemic, but only vaguely. None of my acquaintance was inflicted, except one girl in our dorm, who I never spoke to, had it and was sent home to recover. Life seemed to be normal to me, except for people related with restaurant business, I guess.