Monday I felt great but found I had a wee cough. Nothing serious. I thought it was the result of bar over-exposure Friday night.

It wasn’t.

Monday night my chest got tight. By nine thirty it hurt; by eleven I was seriously sick. By four in the morning I Was In Hell. My entire chest, from collarbones to hipbones, was ON FIRE. And it HURT.

Then the cough arrived. The kind of cough that comes from your ankes and hurts like you’re being vivisected with a million tiny little ultrasharp scalpels from the inside. The kind of cough you dread, the kind of cough that makes you stop doing anything and everything else simply so you can brace yourself for the onslaught. The kind of cough that makes your skull hurt and the brains inside feel like they’re exploding.

Monday night was a horrible night.

Tuesday morning I called Buzz at 7:30 and left the most ridiculous message; something along the lines of: “Dude, I am SO FUCKING SICK! {cough, cough} I won’t be in today, like, {cough, cough} at ALL.”

I remember yelling “Shut up!” at the dogs at one point, then trailing off into senselessness before groaning, “Okay, bye then,” and pressing the End button on my cell phone. I would have felt stupid for leaving such an absurd message if I hadn’t been So. Fucking. Sick.

I put myself to bed. I slept probably 18 hours that first day. I ate nothing but water, a package of Top Ramen, and an ear of corn on the cob.

The next day, Wednesday, I called Buzz around noon. “Hi, it’s Michelle. I’m calling in sick,” I rasped.

He chuckled. “I figured, since you weren’t here.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow! I think I’m feeling better.”

“Oh, uh-huh,” he laughed.

I was awake maybe a total of ten hours that day, in small intervals. The rest of the time I was passed out, sleeping the sleep of the truly wretchedly ill.

Wednesday Brett had come down with it, but not nearly as bad. He had the cough, and the discomfort, but he at least could still move around. He worked half the day, then watched TV through the afternoon. I made occasional pilgrimages to the kitchen for water and he, ever the tender and gentle lover, started calling me Snot. As in, “Hey, Snot, how’re you feeling?”

Ah, love – know thee no boundaries?

Wednesday night, late, while Brett slept on the couch in front of the flickering images of the SPEED channel, I sipped Echinacea Complete Care in beside the fire and marveled that while I must reek, I was so sick I couldn’t smell myself. In spite of that, I thought for a minute that I was getting better. I thought if I could sleep through the night and get up on time, I might get to work the next day.

Hah! I slept the vast majority of the twenty-four hour period known as ‘Thursday’ as well. I even ran a one-degree temperature for five or six hours last night.

But today! Ah, today! I’ve been awake now since TEN O’CLOCK! I did a load of laundry, and picked up after myself and my husband, and am alert enough now to actually sit in front of the goblinbox and blog! Halleluia!

Begin domestic aside:
Now. I realize my man’s been sick these past few days too. I also realize he’s a good goddamned guy in general. But he’s not half as sick as I am, and he never picks up the slack! I’ve been a slob this week because it was all I could do to boil myself some water, let alone wash dishes or pick up after myself, but he’s been well enough to go places and do things and… and… and STAY AWAKE! He took my slovenly behavior more or less as carte blanche to act like a pig. He didn’t even bother to rinse his dishes, which you’d think would have been ingrained in his thick hide by now.

Am I truly out of line to expect my roommate to occasionally, NOW AND THEN, to go just a tiny bit above and beyond? It’s not like I’m pissed off that I had to cook my own food and make my own tea with a staggering headache – I’ve lived with him long enough to know that bringing home a bottle of NyQuil (and calling me “Snot”) is as far as his sickroom ministrations ever go. But SHIT, people! When the primary homemaker is flat on her aching back with influenza, RINSE YOUR GODDAMNED DISHES ALREADY. Maybe toss a load in the washer, rather than letting the bathroom laundry basket overflow all over the floor. Put your garbage IN THE GARBAGE CAN. Put your shoes on the shoe rack and hang your outerwear where it belongs instead of creating an obstacle course of massive boots and piles of slippers, hats, coats, and jackets in the high-traffic areas your sick and almost-legally-blind-without-her-contact-lenses wife is trying to navigate WHILE RUNNING A FEVER!!!

{Chuckle.} Truly, it’s not that bad – nothing fifteen minutes of shuffling around didn’t set right. But when I surfaced enough to actually see the piles of dishes, garbage, and general crap we’d managed to pile up on every surface, I almost fainted. Snort!

Well, I believe it might be naptime again for the Mushlette. I’m off to check my email, maybe get another few ounces of water in this aching body, and get horizontal. Ciao, babies! BE WELL. (I am so serious.)

Score: Flu 1, Mush 0.