Saturday Night Fever

Well, that was not fun.

What I thought was a simple cold turned out to be a Fiendishly Fierce Flu. It included such unlovely symptoms as:

  • The Red Hot Chills. I huddled in bed under all the blankets I could find, also wearing a fleece and a HAT, and I was still shaking like a 6.0 earthquake, and my teeth were chattering more than everyone on the Red Carpet combined. The alternative to the Chills was the Red Hot part, with my hair and t-shirt soaked with sweat like the least attractive contestant in a wet t-shirt contest. In Appalachia.
  • The Eponymous Fever. In an effort to bring down the fever, bathed burning face with cool (for about 5 seconds), damp cloth, looking like an extra from a hospital scene in a Civil War epic made by Ed Wood.
  • The Volcanic Vomiting. As if its mere existence wasn’t bad enough, The VV liked to make sudden, surprise appearances, when its Victim was as far from the salle de bains as possible. Its sense of humor is as sick as I am.

Add to the mix lungs that sound like a dying bagpipe every time you breathe and a savage dose of monthly girl grossness, and you have a perfect recipe for perfect misery.

I’m now experiencing the Exhausted Aftermath, with aftershocks of coughing and baling out my nose, which just keeps refilling. No word on the transplant yet.