Down With The Sickness

It started on Monday afternoon, after my morning bike ride up City Creek Canyon. The ride went well. It was beautiful. I frolicked in the snowy hills amidst the piles of future drinking water. But after I got back I began to feel all soggy like a used handkerchief. Never mind, I thought. It's just stress fatigue from the long weekend. It was a very long weekend after all. So I chose to ignore the body aches.

Then on Tuesday it was still there, but I defiantly chose to go ride my bike again. This time I got back feeling like I just ran the first 57 minute marathon or something, even though I actually was riding so slow that joggers were passing me by at one point. I certainly was not straining myself. But whatever. I'm not one to whine, so I went to work. But I did not want to be there, so I coaxed my superiors into letting me leave halfway through and went home where I then spent most of the night shaking like a tumbleweed in a hurricane, freezing to death in my 70 degree condo. At this point I began to acknowledge that I was sick.

I do not get sick very often. Almost never. Unless, of course, it is food related. I am not one who is afraid to take risks in the culinary department. But discounting for the occasional bite of the Beto's demon, I do not usually fall apart into a gelatinous puddle of filth. So when I do get sick I try to deny it for as long as possible. And then, when I can no longer deny what is happening to me, I get totally pissed off at myself.

I woke up on Wednesday morning and staggered drunkenly into the bathroom, bracing myself against the wall to take care of business, then somehow managed to fall all the way from my bathroom to my couch in one single movement. It was like the most terrible St. Patrick's Day hangover ever. Except that my total St. Patrick's day festivities had consisted of a 12 ounce can of root beer at UPS. The only thing worse than drinking all night and waking up with a terrible hangover is not drinking all night and waking up with a terrible hangover.

After a while I seemed to recover a bit. My mom came over and took my temperature (I own no thermometer of my own) and found that it was 102. I was perplexed. It must have been several degrees higher during the night because I felt as though it was gone by now. But I was feeling positive. I watched 8 hours of Carnivale, and my spirits were high. Things were looking up. Until the nighttime came again, and the whole thing started all over again. I forgot to mention that when I am sick I have nightmares so evil that I can not describe them. I try hard to forget those things. So sleeping brings no comfort.

I woke up an Thursday and staggered drunkenly to the bathroom and began dry heaving obscenely for a while. Of course I hadn't eaten anything but some chicken soup about 15 hours before so there was no point in the heaving, my body was just being dramatic. But I figured it was high time to go to the doctor and make sure I wasn't dying of the soul cancer. After all, I don't remember ever being sick for this many days. Usually I get over it in about 7 hours. So my Mom was kind enough to drive over there again and take me to the instacare where I was abused and violated by a series of sadistic middle-men before I could see an actual doctor.
I have nothing but respect for Doctors. And I try to be grateful to their minions as well. But I have some bad experience with nurses, interns, evil spirits, and secretaries of secretaries who lurk in the shadows of the medical profession. On this day I will focus my complaints against a crude man who I will call The Evil Male Nurse.

Young, female nurses are usually really boring, although nicer to look at than any other classification. The best ones are usually the middle aged ones who have figured out that there is no harm in being friendly to the paying customers, but haven't become bitter and grumpy like the old female nurses. But even the old grumpy ones can be fun. But I have never met a male nurse who did not seem as though he was dissatisfied with his status and was going to take it out on me. And the Evil Male Nurses are a breed so wholly disagreeable that I get teary eyed remembering the things they have done to me.

This one wasn't particularly sadistic, or phsychotic. He was just a very unreasonable man. He took me into a small room to take my vitals. I was having a lot of difficulty remaining upright, so I thought I could get on to the bed thing. I was wrong. He corrected me immediately and made me sit on the kind of uncomfortable chair that emergency rooms are known for. I was like, ok, I can do this. He took my vitals and began asking me all kinds of stupid questions that I could no longer understand because the world was fading away before my very eyes. I heard a voice muttering something incoherent like, "I need to lie down."

"No!" He shouted. "You will be fine."

"I don't think so. I'm going to be sick."

"No you won't. But fine, take this just in case." He thrust a crude bucket into my hands, which I did not really need because I was already planning to throw up on him anyway. At this point I was slouching uncharacteristically low, even for me, cradling my head in my hands and holding the bucket between my knees, shaking, and sweating, and slobbering like a drunken hobo. I would have been embarrassed but I was blaming this guy for it all. Then just as I started to heave he pulled me up and demanded I follow him to another room. Whatever. I stumbeled behind him, feeling my way because my vision was very dark and fuzzy like the white noise on the tv. Then I sort of fainted into the room, somehow catching myself on the side of the bed. That's right, he didn't even catch me, but he was standing right there. I heard my mom freaking out in the background and if I was fully conscious I would have made a huge scene right then and there, but I only could manage to pull myself onto the bed and lie there gasping in terror that I was powerless to exact revenge upon this unrighteous dude. I was repeating in my head the immortal words from the Hagakure, "Even if a man were to have his head cut off, he should be able to do one more action with certainty." I was hoping this would inspire me to some form of beyond the grave violence I could thrust upon him.

Fortunately the doctor was a lot more decent, and the rest of the visit went smoothly except that unfortunately it was determined I have some sort of virus that can not be treated. I was therefore told to go home and drink lots of fluids and sleep. I was hoping by now to sleep forever. Being sick makes me sincerely wish for death. I'm a total baby in this way. If I had to choose between the flu or being shot in the kneecap, I would gladly take that bullet. I can live with pain. I can not abide nausea. So I went home with a heavy heart. Fortunately my sweet girlfriend, Rachel, came over and nursed me back to health in the most womanly ways, as no one else could. I was mighty cheered up. But alas, she left, and darkness fell. Nighttime was upon me again, and it seemed this disease was bent on taking me again. This cycle was starting to get on my nerves.

But then, I woke up. It was Friday morning and I felt fine, except that when I tried to walk I felt like an astronaut who just returned from outer space, and I was racked with hunger pains. I was tempted to eat nothing and read The Road all day just to see if I could gain some deeper insight, but decided that would be a bad idea for a lot of reasons. So I ate and began to feel good again. In fact, I feel fantastic. Now I am having lots of bad ideas. Recovery is a powerful drug. Now I want to get into all sorts of trouble in the dewy sunshine. The HWIC (Head Woman In Charge) at my condos came and told me the plan, and I told her I would call the right people and explain the situation. I will now begin draining the rancid pondscum from the swimming pool. It is the first day of spring. And that is just the beginning of the things I am going to do now that I am back.