We be illin'

By Benjamin Carp

Hippocrates himself once wrote, "A wise man should consider that health is the greatest of human blessings, and learn how by his own thought to derive benefit from his illnesses."

Thanks a heap, Hip. I'd like to point out that Hippocrates is also quite dead.

It's February, and everyone is sick--lying in bed, surrounded by used tissues, and clutching themselves in agony. We want nothing more than "to just get better," or at the very least, euthanasia.

And what's worse, there's no mommy to take us to the doctor, write notes to our teachers, bring us jello and tuck us into bed. Here, at best, we have University Health Services and our college deans.

UHS is great when we need our stomachs pumped, but health services is the last place an afflicted Yalie would want to go. Just ask my friend who was given an enema because he complained of a cough (a bass ackwards way of addressing the problem, if you ask me).

And college deans just don't have that maternal leniency about midterms and papers. Back in high school I could have a sniffle and a 100-degree fever, and mom would let me stay home, no problem. Sometimes I might be inspired to protest, "But mom, I have a biology test today." But no matter. The two of us would then sit back and enjoy a good laugh as we watched the buses take off for their morning rounds. But many would consider bio tests at Yale to be a bit more critical, perhaps because they help determine whether we can even become doctors and maybe figure out how to stop these annoying annual February colds in the first place.

Sometimes one can appeal to a roommate for brief medical care--making Store 24 runs for Tylenol or orange juice. But this is a problem if the roommate is:

a. a guy, and therefore insensitive by birth, breeding, peer pressure and international law. Down at the Masculinity Court hearing, they'd be charged with Sensitivity Unbecoming of a Male for offering to nurse you back to health.

b. nonexistent.

c. really busy. "I'm sorry, Pinky, but you're just going to have to buy your own Immodium. I'm trying to take over the world/discover the cure for cancer/save the flying African vampire squirrel/run for Senate/major in engineering/figure out why the art and architecture building is the ugliest edifice at Yale."

Vengeance can be yours, if you're contagious. No one wants a crazed Typhoid Yalie roaming the picturesque cobblestone streets of New Haven, but sometimes our workload (and lack of mommy's love and care) forces us to unleash our bacteria on the outside world.

Which brings us to how you got sick in the first place. Maybe you are part of one of those couples who constantly trades a cold back and forth. Or you failed to take care of your roommate and she sneezed on your toothbrush. Or perhaps it was just sudden weather change, weak constitution, or that fabulous chicken burrito you had last night. But I consulted ex-Yalie Jonathan Edwards (who is also dead), and it turns out that the reason you're sick is that you deserve it. Perhaps you shoplifted once when you were eight, or ran over a cat, or sold arms to the Contras. Perhaps you made a Faustian pact with Satan. Worse, perhaps you are going to law school. Regardless, you are a Yalie, and therefore you will become a member of the establishment and oppress people, no matter how liberal you think you are. Hence, you are a sinner, and deserve your influenza.

So maybe it's better that mom's not around--I guess this is her fault in the first place. If she and dad had raised me better, I could be proceeding with my plan instead of lying here uselessly in bed. So pass the tissues, Pinky.

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