Cuf, Shakes, and the Norovirus Waltz
There must be a problem - my blood pressure? “Cuf”
Cuf, Shakes, and the Norovirus Waltz
By Jim Reynolds
Two days ago in the afternoon, Vicki nearly collapsed in the hallway. She’d just gotten back from the doctor and was trying to make it to bed, but her body had other plans. After a week of low energy and stomach trouble, her legs gave out. I caught her just in time—arms under her armpits, guiding her down gently until she could sit on the floor. She was incoherent. I got her to the bed, then moments later, rushed her to the bathroom for an explosive bout of diarrhea.
She cleaned up, I helped her back to bed, and we considered calling 911. But eventually her body stabilized, and I stayed with her for a while, watching closely. She wasn’t hot. Her stomach was loud. Her blood pressure? Well, I tried to check it. More on that in a moment.
Instead of panicking, I hit the laptop and searched: “Is stomach flu going around Los Angeles?” Turns out, yes. Norovirus. Contagious. Miserable. Classic symptoms. I felt a strange relief having something to point to. But I also assumed I’d be next.
And I was—sort of.
My Turn at Bat
Yesterday morning, my skin hurt. My bones ached. I felt dizzy and disconnected. I took a seat on the reclining couch, half-watching Gutfeld, half-bracing for the inevitable. It was 85 degrees outside but I needed a couch blanket while laying there. This was going to be a long, ugly day. Vomiting. Diarrhea. Fatigue. The works.
I had a light gin with Pellegrino. I took half a hydrocodone for the aches. Then I stood up to get some water.
That’s when the tremors hit.
My hands were shaking so violently I nearly spilled the glass. I walked—wobbled, really—into the bedroom to show Vicki. “Look at this,” I said, water in hand. The tremor was wild and totally uncontrollable. Classic pre-diarrhea warning signs. But even as it happened, I wasn’t panicked. It was like being outside myself, watching. I was the doctor now, observing the patient. And the patient was me.
I barely made it into bed and crashed for an hour.
When I woke up?
Gone.
No nausea.
No vomiting.
No diarrhea.
No fever.
Pain? Minimal.
Shaking? Stopped.
I drank two glasses of water. Still cautious. Still waiting. But the wave had passed.
The Protocol
Later that afternoon, I returned to the couch and had another gentle gin and Pellegrino—this one celebratory. I’d stared down the virus and walked away. But it wasn’t just dumb luck. I spotted the pattern early and moved fast.
Here’s what I took within the first window:
Quercetin – natural antiviral
Lactoferrin – helps gut and immune response
Zinc – virus interrupter
Hydrocodone (half tab) – to keep the pain tolerable
Sleep (9 hours) – the game changer
Gin with Pellegrino – makes no promises, but it’s staying on the list. Plus, liquids are important!
No food. No rushing things. Just water, watching, and staying calm.
Meanwhile, About That Blood Pressure Monitor
When Vicki was upright again and resting, she asked me to check her blood pressure. I wrapped the cuff around her arm, pressed the button, and waited for the usual whirring sounds to resolve into something useful.
Instead, the little screen flashed: “Cuf.”
Not a number. Not an error code. Just “Cuf.”
So we adjusted, tightened the strap, and tried again.
“Cuf.”
Not helpful.
We looked at each other and asked, “When was the last time we used this thing?” It’s one of those universal queries, like, “why do we always find a seldom-used item in the last place we look?” And when you finally need it, it doesn’t work.
The next day, I ran the machine through my standard tech triage. I figured maybe her arm was too thin for a good reading, so I strapped it to my own brawny (for 75) upper arm and gave it another go.
“Cuf.”
That’s when I made the executive decision—without polling the wife—to repackage the whole contraption neatly into its blue vinyl pouch and shitcan it. I ordered a new one on Amazon. Sixty bucks. Arriving tomorrow.
As Bob Dylan once said:
“You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.”
You don’t need a broken blood pressure monitor to know when something’s off.
Sidebar: For All of Us Mature Individuals
We’re both 75.
She’s recovering from major back surgery.
I’m recovering from jaw surgery.
Neither of us is at full strength.
But we’re still here.
Still watching each other’s back.
Still getting one another to bed or to the toilet when the hallway gets long.
This story isn’t rare. It happens every day.
What’s rare is talking about it.
We’re not fragile. We’re not done. We’re just navigating life with some miles on the clock.
Sometimes the medicine is in the drawer.
Sometimes it’s in the gin.
Sometimes it’s in the quiet moment you look your partner in the eye and say,
“We’ve got this.”
Grook: "Old Systems, New Warnings"
The flesh grows faint, the circuits fail,
The warning lights blink soft and pale.
But grit endures when buttons bluff—
And laughs out loud at “Cuf.”