A Tissick, A Tassick

I have a tissick. And I dearly hope it doesn't kill me.

The other day my handy calendar (that my wonderful husband already wishes he hadn't bought for me) shared that a tissick is a faint, tickling cough. It also shared that it was a cause of death in the olden days, and by "olden" we're talking the mid-1600's.

Apparently in London in 1665, at least 3 people died from tissick. I'll spare you the rest of the death roll -- it's very interesting from a historical research standpoint, and I'm certain it will work itself into my writing, but truly, some of these diseases shouldn't be discussed in polite company.

I read the entry and though, "how quaint". Until this afternoon, when a faint, tickling cough began to plague me. Hours ago, now. Liquids don't seem to be working, food certainly doesn't, neither does lying down, standing up, walking swiftly, walking slowly, sitting, nor whining. Though due to the whining my wonderful husband suggested a hot toddy. I'm hoping it does the trick.

If not, at least I shall go secure in the knowledge that it's better to die from a tissick than to die from a griping in the guts. Though my wonderful husband said that he might die of such if my tissick and my related griping don't cease soon.

J.M. Grant