Snurfle

For the past two weeks, I've had the flu.

That sounds like an awfully long time to be sick, and it is. Usually, when I get sick, it's more of a "hit-and-run" affair: I'm down for 24 hours, 48 at the most, then I'm back up and in action.

Not so this time. This bug, which seems to have infected half the people I know (both in my workplace, a natural breeding environment for viruses of various forms, and in my circle of friends), is a tenacious thing that clings to the body, draining it of energy and filling that void with more mucus, sputum and phlegm than one would think a human body could possibly contain.

My head hurt. My chest hurt. My throat hurt. (That doctor who told me that, after having my tonsils out, I'd never have a sore throat again? I want to hurt.) And this was all before my right eye decided to weld itself shut. For someone who spends his days reading pages to make sure the words on them are spelled correctly, having one eye unavailable for duty is something of a drawback.

That first Sunday I was sick, I was supposed to hang out with Superbadfriend. But when after I left a message with Jessie, she called me back--and her voice was so hoarse that I didn't even recognize it until she said something to her kitty, Ernie. her throat was more messed up than mine.

I deteriorated as that day went on, and wound up taking that Monday off of work. Just as well--by that morning, my voice was gone, and every part of my body ached as if I'd just spent the weekend moving antique furniture to the seventh floor of an apartment building with a broken elevator. No matter what position I contorted my body into, I couldn't rest comfortably.

Then, nighttime came. And matters deteriorated even further.

In order to fully recover from the flu, it's nice to have warm soups, cold water and numerous medicines (whether prescribed by a physician or purchased at your corner drug emporium), but it's even better to have sleep--which is exactly what you can't have when, each and every time you try to recline for a bit of rest, you start coughing so hard that you suspect major internal organs will start flying scross your bedroom any moment. At the very least, you can't sleep more than an hour at a time before another eruption begins.

Foolishly, I went to work the next two days, took off that Thursday and went in again Friday, only to work overtime despite having the use of only one eye for much of that afternoon. That following weekend, I tried taking more aggressive action against the invader: I cancelled all plans and chose to stay in, my face unshaven, my hair (the longest it's been since high school) curling and sailing in all directions like a particularly manic Medusa. Just as well--as has happened a number of times this winter (the worst, they say, in some 30 years), the temperature dropped through the proverbial floor, leaving Sunday lingering in the low single digits.

Not that any of that mattered. Come Monday, I was still wheezing, still coughing, still expectorating to an epic degree and still sleeping no more than a couple of hours a night.

I was also dreaming. A lot, and vividly, no matter how short a time I was out cold. The dreams weren't scary or disturbing, just more intense and frequent than usual, and because of their unusual intensity, they contributed not one bit to my required rest.

This past weekend, I stayed in again, straying into the harsh elements only long enough to secure supplies for either me or the Girlish Girls. (I've said it many times before: I can starve, but Ms. Christopher and Olivia must be properly fed.) Again, my hair went wild. Again, the weather turned raw (this time with rare winter thunder). Again, I dreamed, but more frequently this time, because I actually slept for hours at a time.

And now? Now I'm tired. I'm hungry for something other than soup. My cough is only an occasional thing. And my dreams are welcome to take a well-deserved rest anytime they wish.