I'm writing this to you from my death bed. Thats what it feels like, anyway. I can't see the floor anymore it is littered with so many scrunched up tissues and I've got my daily half-gallon jug of prescribed Gatorade close at hand. Despite the faucet that my nose has become, the 104 degree fever that has decided to microwave my brain, and the currant inability to move faster than a piece of prime Jefferson County roadkill, being sick does have it's advantages.
For example, I get to sleep wherever and whenever I want and nobody questions my sleeping spot of choice. Such as when I was making the 10 ft. commute from the kitchen to the living room where my body decided that enough was enough, so I had a pleasant nap on the coffee table in a spot of sunshine. Or the excuse to watch movies all day in a zombie-like state of mind, no matter how cheesy they are. Or, and this is the best, skip out on my usual homework load. Not to say that this won't come back to bite me in a week or two, but i'm choosing to ignore that fact right now.
The most interesting part of this whole experience was having to visit the doctor's office. Walking into the waiting room of sickly people was like looking in a mirror. I saw the same comatose expression as i'd been sporting for the past few days: pupils shrunk, cheeks flushed, no control over important facial muscles. It was like looking in a mirror that added 30 years and a 5 o'clock shadow.
My mom and I didn't have to wait long before a plump practitioner with a cherry red
nurse uniform and sympathetic smile came to
escort us to a room. As sweet and kind-hearted as she was, I'm not sure that she was a very experienced nurse. According to her
faulty instruments I had grown a foot since last year this time and I had a zero oxygen count. All her various prodding and poking was
accompanied by "Oopsie daises!", "Whoops!", and "That can't be right..."
When the doctor finally showed up, it went from bad to worse. As I told him my various symptoms and ailments, his salt and pepper
whiskers practically bristled in excitement and he exclaimed: "This might just be the flu!" For me, this wasn't the best of news. For him, it
was a triumph of the medical world. Swiveling to type up his observations, he smiled and said "First flu of the season!" in a voice that was
far too happy. You could practically
see it in his eyes: "Ah-ha! Just wait until I tell those noobs over in the throat and nose department that
I treated the first flu of the season. Whoo-baby!"
After the awkward deep breathing exercises and gagging throat swabs, he sat back and proclaimed that I had either a sinus infection,
the flu, a very bad cold, or mono. Almost rubbing his cold doctor hands together in joy, he
informed me that I had to get blood drawn. I
was, for the briefest of moments, tempted to "accidentally" lean over and cough on him.
It isn't that i'm afraid of needles, i'm not. But no one enjoys having slivers of metal injected into their arms and getting their life
juice sucked out. It just isn't fun. It is acutely less enjoyable when the nurse that is doing exactly that seems to have bad eyesight and
aim, resulting in a painful easter egg hunt for prime blood vessels and my face twitching weirdly. At least mom, who had a great view of
all this, found it quite amusing and was laughing that silent, shoulder-shaking laugh of hers.
By far the
worst part of the whole experience? They didn't give me a sucker. As if a 15 year old girl wouldn't want a lollipop just as
much as a 5 year old girl! I tell ya, being over the age of 10 is harder than it seemed from my single-digit days.
Well, its time to go take my second round of medication. I wouldn't be surprised if my hair turned green or some other odd reaction
to the pharmacy of medications they put me on. Not that it would matter if my hair did change colors because i'm under
house arrest for the next few days/weeks. I feel an odd connection with Lassie, quarantined and foaming at the mouth. Except its more
like sliming at the nose. Yuck.
Wishing you all a sick-free and joyful flu season,