Sick daze

In the realm of the obvious, there are fewer things more self-evident than this:

Being sick is no fun.

I guess I tend to forget that sometimes. Every once in awhile, buried beneath an avalanche of work and being growled at by half-mad editors with the blood of other hapless reporters already dripping from their fangs, I look at the vacant desks of ill coworkers with something akin to envy.

“I bet she’s at home in bed watching ‘Simpsons’ reruns and eating ice cream,” I think.

Or: “I bet he’s not even sick at all. He’s probably just taking a long weekend.”

But recently I’ve been reminded just how unpleasant illness is. A week ago, I had a slightly sore throat. I blamed it on undiagnosed allergies and went about my business.

The next morning, I awoke in a hacking, wheezing, sneezing, dripping haze of mucus and phlegm. I couldn’t breathe. I could barely move. I felt, quite frankly, like poo.

My wife called in sick for me.

I don’t know where that day went. Or the next day, when I was again off sick. I know I slept a lot. I also spoke nonsensical sentences aloud and laughed at the croaking sound of my voice until I realized that laughing hurt my throat. I blew my way through a veritable forest of tissue.

Then Saturday dawned. I still didn’t feel great, but buoyed by antibiotics, I felt well enough to go into work. I made it through the shift with little trauma and just knew I was on the mend.

“This was nothing,” I thought. “My white blood cells have mad mojo.”

Wrong. I spent the next two days sick in bed. I came back to work yesterday, but got sent home sick about 2 p.m.

Now I’m back for another try. To say I feel well would be a gross overstatement, but I keep telling myself it could be worse. I could have a wooden leg and a glass eye and a pacemaker — like my grandmother.

One thing’s certain: I’m not going to envy my ill colleagues anymore.

At least, not until the next time the editors attack.

– Ken Raymond,
Staff Writer
Maestro of Mucus
The Tissue Slayer
Spreader of Viral Disease

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