CALL ME SICKO

In this household, we recognize the importance of preventative medicine. With that in mind, we betook ourselves to the doctor to get our annual flu shots. And came home with the flu.

me sicko

We didn’t get it from the shot. That’s a myth. No, we got it from the nice lady who was coughing and refusing to wear a mask because she said it was “just allergies.” Finally, they made her put one on. By then, she had spread the love and I’m betting every person in the waiting room that day is sick now.

You know you are feeling really lousy when the list of things you want to do reads like this:

  1. Nothing.
  2. Be unconscious.
  3. Take enough drugs to make me not care,
  4. Nothing.

My back isn’t good with the idea of spending a day in bed. It lodges a strong objection. The rest of me takes issue with Spine, which always  seems to have the final word. It doesn’t matter if the other body parts would prefer a few days of unconsciousness huddled under the down comforter.

“Why,” ask the Gasping Lungs, “Is it always your call? What makes you so special?”

Spine causes one of the trapezoid muscles to seize, forcing little shrieks of pain from Throat, which is sore.

“Okay, fine, I get it,” say the remainder of the body parts. There’s not going to be a happy compromise here.

As of this writing, no part of me feels good. Most of me feels terrible. I can’t think. My brain is jumbled. My stomach is heaving, probably from the decongestants and other stuff I’ve swallowed in an attempt to get some relief. My head hurts and I have a fever. How high? I don’t know. I lost the thermometer last year.

Is this really the flu? Maybe it’s just a really nasty cold. Whatever it is, I don’t like it.