As a smoker of long-standing, and a man who considers a decent whiskey, or for that matter, vodka, gin, wine or beer (I’m not fussy) an essential food group, I like to think I have faced life with honesty, if not restraint.
Growing up, not only as a doctor’s son but also as an asthmatic prone to bouts of bronchitis, I am fully aware of the problems with this worldview. Also, since the maturity of my prefrontal cortex at around age 25, I am fully aware of the consequences, and yet here we are, again.
The common cold begins, as medical science assures me, with the Incubation Period, lasting one to three days. During this phase, the virus has entered the body and is busily multiplying. Meanwhile, I felt perfectly fine walking my daily 7km.
This is also when confidence runs high. I smoked far too much, as usual, poured the occasional dram and congratulated myself on my robust lungs, which had survived decades of abuse and would surely laugh in the face of a mere virus. I was also, it turns out, contagious. Chatting freely and sharing air with innocent bystanders, blissfully unaware that I was already a walking public health advisory.
The Early Stage arrives quietly, usually between days one and three, and announces itself with a faint scratch at the back of the throat. For a smoker, itchy throats are part of the job description. I responded with mentholated cigarettes, reasoning that the cooling effect might at least confuse the virus.
Sneezing soon followed, violent and frequent, accompanied by a nose that was both blocked and running simultaneously. Mild fatigue set in, along with a voice that sounded as though I had been shouting over loud music in a poorly ventilated bar for several decades — which, in fairness, I had. Still, optimism lingered. I brewed ginger tea, lit another cigarette and told myself I would be fine by morning.
The Peak Stage, spanning days four to seven, is where the cold abandons subtlety. Congestion deepens to the point where breathing feels like an optional activity. Sinus pressure builds, producing the sensation that someone is tightening screws behind the eyes. Coughing becomes constant, echoing and deeply judgmental. As a smoker, I am no stranger to coughing, but this was a cough with deadly ambition.
Fatigue draped itself over me like a heavy duvet, and a low-grade fever added a faint sheen of melodrama. It was at this point that I decided to assist my recovery with traditional remedies.
Rather than resorting to my exhausted and out-of-date asthma inhaler, which sat unused and faintly disapproving on a nearby shelf, I opted for a more integrated approach. Hot toddies entered the picture. Scotch, hot water, ginger, honey and lemon, administered generously and frequently, seemed entirely logical. The warmth soothed the throat, the honey felt medicinal and the Scotch addressed my morale.
Mentholated cigarettes were deployed strategically, under the belief that if they could clear nasal passages for a few minutes, they were doing something useful.
However, just to be on the safe side, and as a fan of the two-pronged approach in these matters, I visited my local pharmacist, who supplied me with some over-the-counter relief.
Eventually, the cold drifted into the Late Stage, also known as recovery, which can last eight to 10 days or longer. Congestion eased, aches subsided and energy returned in cautious increments. I began to feel human again.
The cough, however, lingered. This was not a dramatic cough but a persistent one, appearing at quiet moments and during conversations.
By the time the cold finally loosened its grip, I was left reflective and mildly ashamed. The body had recovered despite my best efforts, not because of them. Resolutions were made about smoking less and drinking more responsibly. These resolutions lasted several hours.
Somewhere, even now, another Incubation Period is probably beginning, while I light a mentholated cigarette, pour a Scotch and assure myself that I feel perfectly fine.
