Children Are Germ Factories

An alternate title for this entry could be: "How, For 24 Hours, I Thought I Had the Swine Flu".

Before I continue, I would like to point out that the events in this entry happened three weeks ago and I've since recovered fully from whatever crazy infection I picked up. So, to my mother, aunts, and anybody in communication with either, or both, of my grandmothers: please chill.

About five days before I left Canada, I started suffering from a mild cold that I'd picked up from my brother. When I landed in São Paulo, despite the fact that ten-and-a-half-hour plane rides are never good for my immune system, the cold was well into its last legs. I was fine when I left São Paulo.

Then I arrived in Rio de Janeiro, and started running around after ten to fifteen snot-nosed children in Rocinha every day. Just to be clear, I'm not using "snot-nosed" as a pejorative; there was literally snot pouring out of their noses throughout the day. A big part of my job was walking around with a roll of toilet paper, cleaning whatever yellowish or greenish fluids emanated from their nostrils. Every single one of those kids had a cold.

I was careful, washing my hands at every opportunity, and making sure not to touch my face or rub my eyes. But I supposed you can only do so much in these kinds of situations, short of going into the crèche wearing a full biohazard suit.

To be fair, while I can blame the kids for infecting me with whatever strain of virus they had, I suppose they can't be completely to blame for the extent of the infection to follow. I was fine for the most of the first week, but on the Friday, my nose really started to run during the evening. The sensible thing would have been to call it an early night. But it was the start of the weekend, and my fellow volunteer Nigella's last night in Rocinha, which would explain why, instead of sleeping it off, I stayed out until 6:00am, at a favela funk party.

Everything might still have been fine had I got decent rest after that party, sleeping in until early afternoon for example. Instead, I was out of bed at 9:00am, in order to make it out for a hang-gliding appointment at 10:00am. After my flight, I still didn't rest. I joined up with a favela tour at 12:00pm. (This was maybe a touch redundant given that I'd been living in Rocinha for a week, but the tour was free, as it was run by the same organisation that set up my volunteering gig, and I did get out to a few places I hadn't yet been.) At 3:00pm, I finished the favela tour and made my way out to Ipanema. I was meeting up with a group to watch a Brazilian Série A football game at 5:30pm, and I killed the time before that by wandering the beachs and people-watching. At 7:00pm, I was in Maracanã Stadium, cheering on Flamengo versus Santo André. The game didn't end until 9:00pm. I was back in Rocinha by 10:30pm. No rest for the wicked.

Through much of that Saturday, I was actually feeling fine. I wasn't sniffling much, and I was surprisingly alert and clear-headed given that I had been drinking until six in the morning. A cough, however, started in the early evening. It lasted though the football game, and by the time I got back to Rocinha that night, I was starting to lose my voice. After a shower, I went to bed around midnight, still coughing up a storm, now with muscle aches, and feeling quite feverish. I was convinced one of those kids had H1N1.

I slept for twelve hours straight that night.

When I woke up, my fever had broken, but I was now producing copious amounts of infected, yellow crap from both my sinuses and my lungs. I dosed myself up with Advil Cold & Sinus and multi-vitamins from my medical kit, then did a whole lot of nothing that Sunday. My naps were only interrupted by showering, doing laundry (I had no clean clothes left), and heading to the base of Rocinha twice to grab some freshly-squeezed orange juice (had to get extra Vitamin C) and a little food.

By Monday morning, I was still sick, but feeling well enough to go into the crèche to work. This might, at first glance, seem incredibly irresponsible of me to go work with children while sick, but I figured the kids already had what I had, and there was little danger of me infecting anybody else -- everybody at the crèche worked so closely with the children that anybody not sick must surely have been immune to the virus.

Despite starting to feel better by the Monday, I still had to manage the cold -- with lots of orange juice, judicious use of cold medication and multi-vitamins, and plenty of sleep -- for another week; it took me that long before I stopped seeing yellowish substances come out of my nose and lungs. By the time I finished up my volunteering in Rocinha, I was pretty much fine, though a lingering, unproductive cough remained until I reached Salvador.

I have to say that I now have a much greated appreciation for day-care workers everywhere, especially the ones that don't succumb to complete and utter germaphobia at the first sight of a kid with a runny nose.

Because I'm not sure I can look at any snot-nosed kid again without wanted to reach for a gas mask and gloves.

Related Entries:
1. Working at the Créche