The Best Thing to Happen All Week

I know, of course,that it's only Tuesday, but this has already been a craptacular week. Let me count the ways:

I'm coming off yet another bout with "the office cold," a particularly tenacious mutant that necessitated time off from work, lengthened an already long week into a marathon and transformed a three-day weekend into a festival of mucus-gurgling pain.

Monday was Valentine's Day, and even though I took the day off from work to hide under a rock until it went away, the media still found ways to shove my perpetual singleness in my face. Even when I turned on the radio to the one "all-news" station we have left in Chicago, I got smacked with celebrity V-Day greetings wedged right between reports on "real" stories. (Do I really care if Shaq or Carrie Underwood wishes me a Happy Valentine's Day or not? No. I don't. Well, maybe if Carrie were delivering her wishes personally...no. Not even then.)

And, as if V-Day and congested sinuses weren't enough fun and frolic, I got the news yesterday that Mom lost her job. (A long story--and one I might relate at some future date--but not just now.)

So back at work Tuesday, short-handed and irritable, I felt the need to scout around for chocolate. And what did I find? Leftovers from Valentine's Day. Much as I love Hershey's Kisses, they don't taste nearly as sweet when they're wrapped in Pepto-Bismol pink.

I lamented this lack of untainted chocolate to a coworker (and fellow chocoholic), who quite appropriately rolled her eyes at the mention of the V-Day leftovers. After patiently listening to my lament, however, she turned in her desk chair, reached into a bag on the floor of her office, and pulled out this: "Take it," she said. "I'll just eat the whole box." I understood the sentiment--put a box of Samoas in front of me and watch them disappear--but the kindness of the gesture was nonetheless appreciated.

Maybe she saw that I was having a rough day. Maybe she concurred with my lack of warmth toward the 14th day of February. Or maybe she really didn't just want to power through that box of Thin Mints herself. Whatever the case, the cookies are at my desk, being casually nibbled on from time to time and elevating my mood ever so slightly.

Thank you, kind coworker. Thank you ever so.

Sign of the Times

This morning, my workplace taped signs explaining how employees should wash their hands to the mirrors in our bathrooms.

Under ordinary circumstances, this might have seemed condescending--even though, much as it pains me to admit it, an alarming number of the men in the office need reminders to wash their hands after using the bathroom, no matter what they're doing in the bathroom.

A coworker (not at my current workplace, thank goodness) once said that he didn't think he needed to wash his hands if he weren't "going number two."

Dude. Seriously.

Not to dumb it down too much, but urine is wastewater. The human body expels it because, well, if it didn't you would die. So unless you're passing Perrier through that thing? You need to wash your hands. Yes, every time.

The signs put up today, though, were not addressing the cleanliness (or lack thereof) of our male employees. It was designed to protect everyone, to some degree, from the Swine Flu, which, as of this morning, had officially spread to Chicago--a North Side elementary school with at least one infected student has been closed for at least the next couple.

Honestly? I'm not that worried about myself. I wash my hands regularly, cover my mouth when I sneeze and cough and have managed to dodge the flu for much of this past season.

My mom? She's 70. And works in a drug store.

Color me worried.

Earache, My Eye

For the past two days, I've had an earache.

This is not a first, by any means. I've had earaches before, usually as a side effect of having a cold or the flu. This time, though, I don't have a cold or the flu--aside from an occasional sniffle (which can happen at any given moment during the long, cold Chicago winter), I feel fine.

In fact, I felt fine until Sunday night, when I went to bed at 10:30--and didn't actually fall asleep until sometime after two.

When I got up Monday morning, awakening from a lovely dream in which I actually went on a date and kissed the lady in question goodnight (something that can happen to me only in a dream), the right side of my head felt like somebody had slugged me with a baseball bat.

I seriously thought about calling in sick, but even to my ear (pun intended), that sounded silly. (Yes, I talk to myself frequently--why do you ask?). I mean, calling in sick...with an earache? I took more sick days last year than I had in a long time. (Granted, I had the days to take, having rolled several days of vacation over from the previous year, but still...) This year has been and will be different in lots of ways--this is but one.

So I went to work anyway and rode it out. Wasn't pleasant. Wasn't fun. But I made it through, had a soup-and-sandwich dinner and went to bed way early--just after eight o'clock.

This morning? My head doesn't feel quite like it's been whacked with a Louisville Slugger. It's more like somebody stuck a pencil in my ear and broke it off.

Progress is progress.

Back from the Dead and Ready to Party

I took Friday off.

I had been sick the previous couple of days, but had gone to work anyway because so many others had the bug that I couldn't be sure my position would have proper coverage. Thursday night, I went to Mom's house for dinner--yes, I know, I shouldn't have gone near Mom with a cold/flu/what-the-fuck-ever, but I hadn't seen her since Christmas Day and, besides, she works in a drug store; she's much more likely to pass the flu on to me than vice versa.

Getting to Mom's house, however, turned out to be a much greater challenge than anticipated, thanks to the CTA.

There were problems on the Blue Line subway--a "medical emergency" had stopped trains running north and, as far as I could tell, south. (The last time CTA announced a "medical emergency," a train had "made contact" with a passenger.) So I loped back up the steps and onto the street, where I caught a Milwaukee Avenue bus headed north. It wound its way through the West Loop and eventually got me as far as Chicago Avenue, where a couple dozen commuters were already milling about, waiting for a westbound bus and shuffling their feet to keep warm.

I walked east to get away from the throng (and, by virtue of being in motion, to stay somewhat warm) and waited at a stop. And waited. And. Waited. Only one westbound bus came through during my 15 minutes there, and in was so packed that passengers were standing on the bottom step just to get on. In that same amount of time, five buses, all nearly empty, were gliding east. After the fifth one passed, I flagged down a cab and made it to Mom's about half an hour after I ordinarily would have been. I could have gotten there just as fast by walking.

And Mayor Daley wants to have the Olympics here, when the transportation system can't handle an average rush hour? Brilliant.

My adventure with CTA did nothing to make me feel any more well. If fact, I felt worse Friday morning, and my workload at the job was relatively light, so I called in sick, stayed in, watched the snow fall, ate soup and drank the Walgreens equivalent of TheraFlu for the next three days.

Now? I feel so much better. Just in time for the next snowstorm, which will hit around rush hour--right when I'm supposed to head for Mom's house.

Better start walking now.

Urrrrrrr

There's a new bug going around work--there always seems to be at least one.

My supervisor has it. One of the guys I back up has it. The guy on the other side of the cubicle wall from me has it.

Can you see where this is going? I'm sure you can.

Is it just me, or is each cold/flu season worse than the last?

Are the bugs mutating? Or are we?

Snurfle

My apologies for not posting here this week. A lot has been going on over here, not much of it good:

Work has been extremely hectic and will only get more so as my company moves into its "busy season."

A cold is working its way through our office, and I'm the lucky soul who has it now. I stayed home from work yesterday and feel better today, but it's a rainy day and I'd much rather be in bed.

Ms. Christopher isn't feeling well these days. She seems to be having trouble chewing--consequently, she's not eating very much and has lost weight. I'm hoping she just has a problem with her teeth or gums. I'll find out more when I take her to the vet tomorrow morning.

Again, sorry for the lack of updates and for the boring, "just the facts, m'am" nature of this one. I'll try to post more next week.

In the meantime, I hope all's well with you and yours.

Sick Is as Sick Does

Turns out it wasn't my imagination--I really was sick after all.

I felt progressively worse as the day went on Thursday, with chills, headache and body aches in unusual places (elbows? abdomen? the hell?), and by the time I got home from work I was pretty sure I wasn't going to work on Friday. Still, formalities must be observed, so I went to bed insanely early (around eight or so), forgoing a fresh episode of Ace of Cakes on the off chance that I might feel slightly better by daybreak.

No such luck. When I woke up Friday morning, well before the alarm, I felt worse than I had Thursday night (or, if not actually worse, then certainly not a bit better). I logged onto Polly Jean, my now-ancient lime-"flavored" iMac, and sent a broadcast email to pertinent coworkers, letting them know I wouldn't be in. Then I fed the cats, popped a couple Tylenol P.M.s and stumbled back to bed.

This turned out to be one of my best decisions in quite some time, for not only did I not feel any better the remainder of Friday, but I developed "complications"--the sort of "complications" that makes being within ten feet of a bathroom at all times a very, very good idea.

Since I was now tethered to La Casa del Terror, I did what I usually do when I'm illin'--I watched a zombie movie. Last time, it was Shaun of the Dead, a lovely tribute to George Romero's undead epics. This time, I went straight to the source: Romero's Dawn of the Dead, still a stinging social satire 30 years after it was given an X rating by the MPAA based solely on the amount of violence onscreen (which, admittedly, is an awful lot--the dead and living alike get blown up, chopped up, run over, shot, decapitated by helicopter blades, etc.). After watching a good-humored "making of" documentary, I resumed my self-induced coma.

Saturday? I did nothing. No. Really. Nothing. Didn't stare at Food Network or surf the 'Net or watch porn or play CDs. Just stayed in bed (my "complications" having subsided), only rising occasionally to eat or whiz (never at the same time--that would be unsanitary).

By Sunday, I was more or less back to myself--a bit of a sore throat and some leftover body aches, but pretty much whatever passes for normal. I still slept late, though, and went out to my favorite breakfast place and shocked them by ordering lunch: a bleu cheeseburger, thankfully not made from a preformed patty but an actual lump of beef thrown on a grill and cooked just right, with grilled onions draped over the peaks of cheese like ceremonial bunting.

After finishing my most satisfactory lunch, I stopped by Walgreens for some cat litter--thank goodness, no medicine needed to be picked up--and headed for home, pausing only to look at what someone had tossed into the alley: a bass guitar. The case was battered, with two of the three locks broken, and the guitar itself wasn't in the best shape either--it had only one string, was missing two of the other four string posts, and had a couple of dangling wires where its electronics should have been. It had a lovely laquered wood finish, though, and it was a Fender--I don't know (Bo) Diddly about guitars, but I know that's one of the best brands.

No, I don't play bass--hell, I still have an acoustic guitar I have never learned how to play--and I've got more than enough stuff in La Casa that I don't really need. Still, the bass was a handsome bit of hardware and was hardly beyond repair...

So, yes, I lugged it home. Yes, it's sitting in my dining room. No, I still don't know how to play it. But at least I felt well enough to go out for lunch, and if I hadn't, I wouldn't have the Fender bass. And damn, it looks good.

Hack. Wheeze. Repeat as necessary.

It was about a month ago that I came down with the flu. Sickest I've been in years. Chills. Fever. Aches in every part of my body. (Yes. Every.) Nasal and Chest congestion. Eye irritation.

And a cough. A constant, hacking, wheezing, body-shaking cough. Sometimes, this cough was actually useful, shaking loose the congestion in both my head and chest and making me feel momentarily like I wasn't chained to the bottom of the deep end of the swimming pool. More often than not, though, it just added to my misery, making my throat raw (especially first thing in the morning), making my ribs ache like I'd just gone ten rounds with Ali, and keeping me awake most of the night when rest was the only thing that would help me beat this thing.

It took a couple of weeks and lots and lots of Theraflu, but I finally got to the point where most of my body felt normal (well, as normal as I ever feel), the body aches went away and I could sleep more than an hour at a stretch.

Except, of course, for the cough.

It's not as bad as it was, nor as constant. It doesn't keep me up at night and doesn't double me over during the day. It's worst first thing in the morning and right before bed, popping up only occasionally throughout the hour in between.

But it's still here.

I'm told by friends who've had the same flu that the cough is the last symptom to leave, that it lingers for weeks like a houseguest who just can't take a hint. It doesn't require cough drop after cough drop like it did for so many days. It doesn't keep me from doing whatever I want to do anymore, like going to movies or dinner.

But. It's. Still. Here.

And I'd like it to go away. Now.

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.