cough cough
It started in the back of the throat. A tiny tickle, a small scratch, next to nothing, hardly noticeable, then BAM, full on sickness.
It’s been slow at work lately, and I’ve been going through one of my, "What am I doing with my life" phases, and I thought my time could have been better spent by working out for a few hours, and then painting for a few hours, and then writing for a few hours. I thought about calling in sick to work, taking a personal day, and doing all those things I would like to do. But then my sense of duty got the better of me, and I went to work (and let’s be honest, I would have done the working out, and painting, and writing in theory, but in reality I probably would have done one of the three, and spent the rest of my time watching television). But for a few minutes there I really thought about calling in sick to work. Perhaps that book, The Secret, is right, the power of active visualization does work… I thought about calling in sick to work on a Monday, and a few days later all hell breaks loose in my respiratory system.
Yes, friends, neighbors, countrymen, I am sick. I hate being sick. No, seriously, I hate being sick. I hate staying in bed, I hate coughing, I hate sneezing, I hate the sore throat, the achy body, the headaches, I hate having to blow my nose every five minutes, I hate it all. I don’t get sick very often, but lately when I do, I go whole hog. It’s as if my white blood cells go on vacation for a day, and some virus makes it’s way into my system, mucks around for 24 hours, then goes away, and I’m all better. But this time it’s different. My 24-hour window passed 14 hours ago, and I’m still sick. I’m still running a slight fever, I still have my headache and my sore muscles, and I still can’t breath.
This sucks.
I called in sick to work. I told the boss that I had a fever of 104 degrees the night before (which was a bit of an exaggeration, I actually only recorded up to 103.7… but figured there were times when I felt worse than when I did when I took that reading, so I must have had a higher temperature). The boss told me I should see a doctor (Maybe that’s a high temp, but I’ve survived worse, and I’m not a ninny).
Okay, maybe I am a ninny. It sucks being single on New Years Eve, and Valentine’s Day, and birthdays, that’s a given. But people seem to forget that it sucks even more when you’re sick. I would imagine that one’s significant other would go out and buy the sick party soup, and medicine, and fluff the pillows, they might take you to the doctor (assuming you’re a ninny), and occasionally ask if you’re feeling alright. But when you’re alone, you have to do all this stuff on your own. There is no one to go out and buy you soup, or juice, or drugs. No sir, you’ve been left to survive on your own. Good luck soldier.
So I tossed and turned last night, suffering from fever dreams (I was bags of gold for the Japanese Mafia. Yeah, I don’t get it either). I woke up at 4:45 and walked around the house for 15 minutes until I decided it hurt too much to move and went back to bed where I stayed, watching television, till about 11:00 in the morning. This is when I officially ran out of tissue paper. I wondered around the house looking for another box, but couldn’t find another, and I wasn’t about to get dressed and go out, so I started carrying around a roll of toilet paper. I’ve blown my nose some 250 times today (my trash can filleth over with used tissues. It’s gross). I’ve taken who knows how many pills (decongestants, cold and sinus, pain killers) I’ve drank a small bottle of cough suppressant syrup, and I forced myself to eat soup.
Soup. I don’t understand soup. Soup is so… watery. It’s so insignificant for a meal… but they say that’s what you eat when you’re sick. Way back in the back of the pantry was one can of chicken soup (had there not been a can, I would have had to put on clothes and go buy my own soup… well, chances are I probably would have skipped eating all together as sick= loss of appetite). So I ate my soup, and the hot broth made my throat feel better, and I thought, "Maybe I’ll be better now!" as I watched Project Runway for the fifth time in a row (there was a marathon today on Bravo. I gotta say, I don’t think Jeffrey deserved to win).
Even though I’ve eaten the soup, and drank the liquids, and taken enough drugs to stop an elephant, I still haven’t gotten better. Now we’re nearly two days into this whole sick ordeal and I’m thinking about seeing the doctor. But I hate the doctor. I have this fear that I’m going to go to see the doctor about the cold, and find out that I have some rare disease.
"So doc, a prescription for some antibiotics and I’ll be good to go right?"
"I’m sorry to tell you this son, you have Lou Gehrig’s disease."
"Aw man."
"Yeah. Totally."
But what the hey? I’ll go ahead and try to get in to see the doctor tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll tell me that I have a cold, and prescribe me the requisite drugs, and nothing more will come of it. Besides, I’ve already imagined the worst by my thinking about calling in sick to play hooky, only to really call in sick a few days later. I mean, lighting can’t strike twice, can it?