If one more god-blessed germ gets on me, I’m outta here. I’ve been sick for a damn week and let me say, enough is enough. I finally broke down and went to the doctors so now, feeling somewhat better, I am able to put finger to keyboard and let you all know just how eff-ed off being sick makes me.
You can’t do shit when you’re sick. Oh at first you put up a gallant fight. I’ll power through it. I’ll vacuum while I hack and sniffle and wash the clothes while my goddamn head splits open. No problem. I’ve got this down. Pump the Robitussin and Ibuprofin baby and lets go for a run.
During that time the germs are just dicking with you. They’re making you think that they’re all weak and easily quashed. “Oh, she’s so tough, we’ll never kick her ass,” they whine. Snarkly little bastards. They’re just playing me for a fool. Laying low while I think I’m winning.
And the greedy little devils come out at night, after I’ve exhausted myself trying to convince myself and everyone around me that I’m not sick. I’m so damn tired I just want to fall into bed and what to those little pricks do? They hit me with the second wave. Now I’m feverish and achy and I’m waiting for my lung to come up. I’m telling you, they are tricky, shady bastards.
And still I plug on. I get my achy ass out of bed, get in a shower so hot my skin begins to peel off and try to look semi-presentable for work. I make it about half-way through the day before I’ve coughed so hard I’ve nearly broken blood vessels in my eyes and my ribs feel like they’re in a vice.
And the rest of my body doesn’t cooperate. Every system I own, digestive, respiratory, circulative, everything, they all gang up on me. I damn near pee myself every time I cough and where in the hell is all this pee coming from anyway? Is urine the byproduct of germs? I’m wondering!
Finally, I can take no more and with a shaky hand I pick up the phone and call the doctor. This sets me into a cold sweat. She’s going to weigh me, check my blood pressure, wonder about my acid reflux. God, just let me die. I can’t take the stress. And then I look on my desk at the picture of my kids and my husband. For them, I must endure. So I make the appointment and tell myself I’m a good little drama queen.
I even text my dear husband and tell him what I good girl I’ve been and I’m going to the doctors. And how does he repay me? He reminds me that of all the initial hang-ups that were keeping me from calling in the first place. Thanks Babe! You’re a friggin peach! But he reminds of the one other thing that can make me cancel the appointment. The one thing I dread more than disappointing my doctor.
I’m sorry, I don’t like needles. I know it’s cowardly and as a responsible adult I should make a good example and get the damn thing. Well, you all know I’ve never been a good example, except as maybe to serve as a warning to others, and therefore I don’t feel all that inclined to take one for the team. Besides, I AM an adult and as such, I am free to choose whether or not I want impaled by a needle or carefully swallow a few steroids that may or may not add a few pounds. The choice is clear: no needle.
So I sit in the exam room, worrying about the fact that I weigh three pounds heavier and that my blood pressure wasn’t pristine, and I’m sick as a dog on top of it. But what’s bringing out the sweat on my forehead is the looming needle I see coming at me. They want me to feel better quick, I understand that. But if sticking me with a needle is going to help my recovery along by a mere 12 hours, they can keep their ‘stick’.
Surprisingly, my doc was cool with me asking for the pills. She’s so cool, I’m excited and maybe even feeling a little better about the whole situation. Sure, I’m still nearly weak from the germs attacking like they’re taking Bagdad, but I wasn’t pressured into an injection.
As I follow her out for my prescriptions, the nurse hands her a syringe. Hold the phone…is that for me? Well, the nurse just figured she’d go ahead and get the injection ready, so damn smug that she knew I’d want one. She doesn’t know me at all! My doc laughs, saying I ‘whimped out’ and I don’t even mind. If ‘wimping out’ means my skin is free of punctures, I can deal. I’ll happily deal.
So it’s been a few hours and I’ve got my meds in me and I can honestly say I’m feeling a little better. Oh, I’m still hacking and I’m still achy and feverish. My head’s hot and my toes are cold. Phlegm is my new best friend, but slowly I can see that I’m going to make it back into to semi-good health. Hell, I may even sleep some tonight.
And I’m happy with this slow but steady progress. I can take things slow and know that we’ve made forward progress with the miracle of modern (or not so modern) science. Tomorrow I’ll feel better and the day after, even more so. And all the while, I can say I beat the damn thing injection-free. I did it on my own terms. Faced the germy beast and smote it down…okay, that’s just the meds talking.
Good health friends!