Through eyes so crusted over that they hardly open, I look at my clock: 12:00. There’s a gray light filtering through the closed shades. With a groan, I turn my face into the pillow pull the blanket over my head. It’s noon on a Tuesday and I’m in bed with the blanket over my head. There’s Pepto Bismal, a bottle of Tylenol, a thermometer, and a small green-glass bottle of Schweppes ginger ale on the nightstand. This can only mean one thing: sick.
Remember getting sick when you were a kid? It was something to celebrate, even something you would try to fake. You got to stay home from school. You got to wear your pajamas all day. You got to watch TV. You got to drink soda. You got new books. Mom and Dad would swoop in to take care of you, lavishing unto you all sorts of gifts designed to distract you from your symptoms. In the unlikely event that your ailment lasted more than a day or two, you would go to a doctor who would prescribe some yummy-tasting antibiotic, or some such thing, and you’d be on the mend in short order. What could be better?
But from my perspective here under the blanket—pain in every joint, grumbling in my tummy, eyes about to leap out of their sockets—it’s hard for me to believe that being sick could ever be a good thing.
But the funny thing is: as great as it was, I can hardly remember being sick since my youth. Through most of middle school, high school, and college, the worst symptom I ever experienced was a scratchy throat. Hardly enough to keep me out of school.
But now I’m an adult. Now I’ve outgrown my juvenile invincibility.
It started Monday night, shortly before bed. My bowls were in an uproar; I had an empty feeling in the back of my throat, which I could only remember feeling after a night of heavy drinking. I crawled into bed next to Celia with a moan. She was already asleep. I just assumed I’d feel better in the morning.
In the morning, I felt worse. Much worse. In addition to gastrointestinal distress, I was achy and cold. It was miserable. I was still nauseous, and I had an 11:30 a.m. meeting. With another groan, I rolled over, and told Celia I didn’t feel well. She immediately flew into loving/caring mode, of which I took full advantage. In short order, she brought me the Pepto, a glass of water, and my laptop’s power cord (sick or not, I still had to check my email!). After checking in on me every five minutes while getting ready for work, she eventually left, and I flopped around in bed until 11 a.m., when I decided that I was too sick for my meeting.
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