The Great Sickness of 2014
I never get sick. Like, ever. I’m not one of those people who calls in sick every couple of weeks, or always has a pack of Fisherman’s Friends in their purse in case of an impromptu case of strep throat and/or bronchitis. I cannot tell you the last time I had the flu, or mono, and my 10-year streak of constant tonsillitis ended when I had the suckers cut out in 2008. So how, you might ask, did I end my long weekend attempting to sleep upright to clear my nasal passageways, sucking on ice cubes, guzzling orange juice, and feeling pretty goddamn sorry for myself?
That...is a good question.
I woke up Friday morning with a bit of a headache. No big deal, people get headaches all the time. Maybe I chewed the wrong brand of gum the day before and accidentally ingested gluten. That would give me a wicked headache, so I chalked it up to that. As the day progressed I started to feel fuzzy and had a few sniffles and sneezes, nothing to be concerned about so I didn’t worry about it. After one job was over I moved onto job #2 and busted out 3 more hours of work. By the end of my shift, a small tickle at the back of my throat was becoming hard to ignore. I came up with a million excuses, but I finally succumbed to the thought I had been pushing deeper and deeper into my subconscious - I was getting sick.
Through the night I awoke with a burning in my throat that was on par with what I imagine it would feel like if I was one of those circus people who stick the flaming sticks into their mouths. Every swallow felt like a million little knives being stuck into my skin by a million little throat monsters. I choked down some water with a side of self pity and started preparing my get-better plan. I crawled out of bed a few hours before my shift at work and brewed up a big mug of ginger green tea. I wrapped myself in a fuzzy robe and sat on the couch while clutching the warm ceramic, hoping that by the time I was done my beverage I would miraculously feel better and laugh triumphantly at the defeated virus that thought it could break past my immune system of steel. Unfortunately, that was not the case. As the day progressed I became less and less like myself, and more and more filled with mucus. I could barely hear, my head was pounding, my throat was on fire, and my nose was so plugged I was breathing with my mouth open, panting like a bulldog. I pushed it aside and grabbed some refreshments for a friend’s birthday party taking place later that evening. I napped for 2 hours and ate a quick tasteless dinner before going back outside to be what one might call a ‘trooper’. At the party I drank fruit juice (wine...let’s be real) and focused on having fun rather than how much I felt like a bag of poo. I got a ride home and was glad when my warm, cozy bed greeted me with open arms.
Sunday I woke up with the realization that I was full-blown, Pearl Harbor, ‘aint nobody got time fo dat’ sick. My body felt like it’d been body slammed by The Rock and then passed off to an airline baggage handler (you KNOW they don’t read those ‘fragile’ stickers). I would’ve cried in frustration if I had the energy to move my face into cry position. I labored myself into an upright position and whimpered as I tried to sniff, shoving mucus into my frontal lobe. I was not a happy camper. Each time I swallowed my ears made a crunchy noise and my throat screamed. I forced out a couple measly coughs and prepared a pitiful, sympathy seeking Tweet. I spent the hours leading up to my shift drinking cold water, watching a feel good romcom, blowing out brain matter, and listening to peppy tunes. Anything to make me feel better and to make this sickness go away. Thank God my shift at the store took place once it was empty of customers, allowing me to wear sweatpants and be as close to makeup-free as I could get. I didn’t even wash my hair (sorry guys). I powered through the 4.5 hours of floorset and drove home through a blizzard, feeling my bed beckoning me from across the city. My pajamas had never felt so good. That night I slept on the couch, propped up by cushions and snuggling my panda bear pillow pet.
Today was terrible. If my day was a tv show it would be one of those Real Housewives shows. No offense. It is my first day off in 23 days and I can barely stand, let alone do anything worthwhile. Part way into the evening I realized I wanted juice. No, not wanted...NEEDED. It was as if my body was screaming for the sweet nectar of the Gods, consuming me with this need for vitamin C. I searched my fridge and came up with an old jug of cranberry juice, whose sole purpose was to be mixed with vodka and 7up. I drank it, purely because it was either that or water, and 10 minutes later was still wandering my apartment deliriously looking for juice. I stared out my window into the white expanse of frozen Manitoba and contemplated calling my parents to see if they could go buy me some and drop it off. Thus is the constant struggle of being an independent woman - wanting to do something for myself even if it means going out in public looking like Lindsay Lohan in mugshot #4. And so...I went out in public. I put on my most socially acceptable pajamas and crushed a 1980’s Winnipeg Jets hat over my terribly unkempt hair, being sure to brush my teeth and put on deodorant in case anyone got close enough to smell me. With my head down I scuffled across the parking lot to my vehicle and avoided making eye contact with anyone I passed. When I got to Shopper’s Drug Mart (the only place open at 8pm on Louis Riel Day) I crept to the juice aisle and loaded my arms with jugs, cartons, and bottles of every kind of juice imaginable. I snuck around the corner and made my way to the cash register, I was in the home stretch! I placed my items on the desk and as the cashier greeted me I realized I hadn’t spoken a word since the night before, and my casual “hello” came out something like “hhhhhhhll...o” *cough* *clears throat* “Hi”. I smiled awkwardly as he filled bags with my multiple juice purchases and quickly paid, offering a simple wave rather than another mangled vocal exchange.
So alas, here I am, sucking on ice cubes, guzzling orange juice, and feeling pretty goddamn sorry for myself. I’m sure this cold will last no longer than a week, but until it goes away I will continue to act as if the world is ending and I’m dying a slow painful death.
That...is a good question.
I woke up Friday morning with a bit of a headache. No big deal, people get headaches all the time. Maybe I chewed the wrong brand of gum the day before and accidentally ingested gluten. That would give me a wicked headache, so I chalked it up to that. As the day progressed I started to feel fuzzy and had a few sniffles and sneezes, nothing to be concerned about so I didn’t worry about it. After one job was over I moved onto job #2 and busted out 3 more hours of work. By the end of my shift, a small tickle at the back of my throat was becoming hard to ignore. I came up with a million excuses, but I finally succumbed to the thought I had been pushing deeper and deeper into my subconscious - I was getting sick.
Through the night I awoke with a burning in my throat that was on par with what I imagine it would feel like if I was one of those circus people who stick the flaming sticks into their mouths. Every swallow felt like a million little knives being stuck into my skin by a million little throat monsters. I choked down some water with a side of self pity and started preparing my get-better plan. I crawled out of bed a few hours before my shift at work and brewed up a big mug of ginger green tea. I wrapped myself in a fuzzy robe and sat on the couch while clutching the warm ceramic, hoping that by the time I was done my beverage I would miraculously feel better and laugh triumphantly at the defeated virus that thought it could break past my immune system of steel. Unfortunately, that was not the case. As the day progressed I became less and less like myself, and more and more filled with mucus. I could barely hear, my head was pounding, my throat was on fire, and my nose was so plugged I was breathing with my mouth open, panting like a bulldog. I pushed it aside and grabbed some refreshments for a friend’s birthday party taking place later that evening. I napped for 2 hours and ate a quick tasteless dinner before going back outside to be what one might call a ‘trooper’. At the party I drank fruit juice (wine...let’s be real) and focused on having fun rather than how much I felt like a bag of poo. I got a ride home and was glad when my warm, cozy bed greeted me with open arms.
Sunday I woke up with the realization that I was full-blown, Pearl Harbor, ‘aint nobody got time fo dat’ sick. My body felt like it’d been body slammed by The Rock and then passed off to an airline baggage handler (you KNOW they don’t read those ‘fragile’ stickers). I would’ve cried in frustration if I had the energy to move my face into cry position. I labored myself into an upright position and whimpered as I tried to sniff, shoving mucus into my frontal lobe. I was not a happy camper. Each time I swallowed my ears made a crunchy noise and my throat screamed. I forced out a couple measly coughs and prepared a pitiful, sympathy seeking Tweet. I spent the hours leading up to my shift drinking cold water, watching a feel good romcom, blowing out brain matter, and listening to peppy tunes. Anything to make me feel better and to make this sickness go away. Thank God my shift at the store took place once it was empty of customers, allowing me to wear sweatpants and be as close to makeup-free as I could get. I didn’t even wash my hair (sorry guys). I powered through the 4.5 hours of floorset and drove home through a blizzard, feeling my bed beckoning me from across the city. My pajamas had never felt so good. That night I slept on the couch, propped up by cushions and snuggling my panda bear pillow pet.
Today was terrible. If my day was a tv show it would be one of those Real Housewives shows. No offense. It is my first day off in 23 days and I can barely stand, let alone do anything worthwhile. Part way into the evening I realized I wanted juice. No, not wanted...NEEDED. It was as if my body was screaming for the sweet nectar of the Gods, consuming me with this need for vitamin C. I searched my fridge and came up with an old jug of cranberry juice, whose sole purpose was to be mixed with vodka and 7up. I drank it, purely because it was either that or water, and 10 minutes later was still wandering my apartment deliriously looking for juice. I stared out my window into the white expanse of frozen Manitoba and contemplated calling my parents to see if they could go buy me some and drop it off. Thus is the constant struggle of being an independent woman - wanting to do something for myself even if it means going out in public looking like Lindsay Lohan in mugshot #4. And so...I went out in public. I put on my most socially acceptable pajamas and crushed a 1980’s Winnipeg Jets hat over my terribly unkempt hair, being sure to brush my teeth and put on deodorant in case anyone got close enough to smell me. With my head down I scuffled across the parking lot to my vehicle and avoided making eye contact with anyone I passed. When I got to Shopper’s Drug Mart (the only place open at 8pm on Louis Riel Day) I crept to the juice aisle and loaded my arms with jugs, cartons, and bottles of every kind of juice imaginable. I snuck around the corner and made my way to the cash register, I was in the home stretch! I placed my items on the desk and as the cashier greeted me I realized I hadn’t spoken a word since the night before, and my casual “hello” came out something like “hhhhhhhll...o” *cough* *clears throat* “Hi”. I smiled awkwardly as he filled bags with my multiple juice purchases and quickly paid, offering a simple wave rather than another mangled vocal exchange.
So alas, here I am, sucking on ice cubes, guzzling orange juice, and feeling pretty goddamn sorry for myself. I’m sure this cold will last no longer than a week, but until it goes away I will continue to act as if the world is ending and I’m dying a slow painful death.
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