For years, my husband has had bouts of hiccups that sometimes last for days. And sometimes his hiccups predict when he’s going to have a very bad head cold.
Such was the case a few weeks ago. Violent hiccups started in the evening, and by the next morning he could have starred in a Nyquil commercial — sneezing, coughing, aching — with hiccups thrown in for good measure. This went on day and night for four days. None of the usual “cures” work, not drinking from the opposite side of the glass, holding his breath, a scare, nor a spoonful of sugar.
Occasionally the hiccups stopped and I’d hope they’d ended. But I didn’t want to say anything lest I jinx him. “Doesn’t your chest hurt?” I asked midway through the ordeal.
“I just think hiccuping so often would make your chest hurt.”
“Hiccups? I don’t have hiccups!” he growled.
I shut up because, in that case, not remembering was a good thing. Never mind that in an hour they’d start again.
The following week he didn’t remember the horrible cold nor the hiccups, and if his chest ever ached, he didn’t remember that either.
Sometimes, not remembering is a good thing, right?