On Feeling Sick

It’s all Glenn Hauman‘s fault.

At Farpoint Glenn made a point of saying, “You can’t get sick. You can’t take vacation. You can’t die. There’s a whole industry riding on your shoulders.”

Not that I’m disagreeing with Glenn, but he jinxed it.

I. Am. Sick.

Today I’ve done something I have never done.

I called in sick to work.

Friday I had a tingle in my throat. And it passed.

Saturday? Nothing.
Sunday? Nothing.
Monday? Nothing.

Tuesday? My throat didn’t feel scratchy, but I had a weak cough, and my lungs feel congested. Actually, they felt like there was gunk hanging inside them.

Wednesday.

In the morning I felt good. I had a headache, but that was about it. Then as the day wore on my throat caught on fire, a cough developed, and I couldn’t get warm. I sat in my cubicle, wearing my winter coat and huddled over the computer. I wasn’t warm enough.

On the drive home, I had the heater in the Beetle cranked all the way up. Maximum temperature, maximum blow strength. I still wasn’t warm enough.

When I got home, I got under the covers. I needed blankets. I had my winter coat on under the covers. I was getting warm enough.

When I went to bed, I did strip down. And around three this morning, I woke up and had to change what I was wearing; I’d sweated so much during the night that I was soppy.

I do have a cough today. And it’s a painful cough. It feels like things are ripping apart in my lungs when I “hack.”

So I’m at home today. Taking cold medicine. Taking cough syrup. Drinking Sprite, which I really don’t like, so I’m mixing it with orange juice.

We hates the sickness, Precious. We hates it. Why does it makes us hurt so, Precious?

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