When the sweat reaches its peak and you’re freezing on the sofa and your head is full of sickness and swill, when your skin is burning and lips are chapped and bleeding and the only sound you can make is a groan that only the dog hears, be glad you don’t live a hundred years ago. Because you’d probably be dead soon. Or maybe that’s a good thing.
Spending half a week with a filthy fever that wrestled itself inside my body and hid for a month before finally careening up my bloodstream is no way to spend a crisp November. When it swallowed my face and infected my very core and soul, this insipid little bastard of a cold had the gall to make me look like a slouch in front of my fairly new job. The same job that has seen me call in sick more times in my first 3 months than I did during the last 5 years of my previous job. Funny how perception of your person can vary wildly among those you barely know.
3 colds in 5 weeks and this last dirty doozy had me seeing dreams when I wasn’t sure if I was even sleeping. The hallucinations of glasswork people and broken conversations permeated me as if I were a glistening piece of rotten gristle, the strange warmth and slow liquid whim of my body attempting to restore its core temperature had me trembling and weak but somehow strangely calm and resigned. I kept feeling like a pig on a spit as I kept turning over, struggling for breath through a clogged, yet dripping nose. I soon didn’t care how sick I had become, I just laid there for a few days and groaned like a weird factory machine.
Fever broke, mostly better, now. No thanks to whatever scumbag whose infected breath I smelled or whatever soiled doorknob I turned just before digging up my nostril.