Quarantine

I am not a person who gets sick often. Yes, I like to complain that I think I am getting sick, and I pretty much convince myself that any germ that comes in contact with me could cause my death. And yes, I have been known to lick the faces of people with colds when I really feel like I need a day off. However, I rarely actually, not hypochondrially, get sick. I blame my parents. Damn strong constitutions. However, this month has been different. This month not only have I had the stomach flu, I have come down with the super cold.

It started two weeks ago with a sore throat. I didn't think it was a big deal, after all, it was Friday, and I like the taste of Halls cherry cough drops. As I sat at my desk that day Jen, the evil photographer, came by to tell me I had the beginning of the mega cold that had felled three of her colleagues. She told me one had even gotten so sick his throat had bled, and doctor had told him not to talk for a week. Now, Jen is also the one who throws things at my head, and usually tries to make my life miserable, so you can understand why I took her comments with a grain of salt. Little did I know she told the truth.

Saturday and Sunday of that week were spent pretty much in a cold medicine induced daze. I just felt tired and snotty, and not in a good way. Ryan and I laid around and pretty much took it easy. Then Monday I was feeling better. When Jen walked by my desk I haughtily informed her I had beaten the so-called monster illness and was on the road to recovery. "Oh no," she said, her eyes glowing red, "you just think you have. It will come back." I made the sign of the cross and went on with my day.

Tuesday I pretty much woke up dead. However, I forced myself to continue to go to work until Thursday, and even then it took Ryan convincing me that if I didn't call in he would. It isn't that I hate missing work, in fact I think of my sick days as little candy covered jewels sent to me by Jesus. However, I had already been out two days for the stomach flu and there was a big story going on. But after breaking down crying because I just didn't think I had the energy to go on, and after coughing up a lung in the shower, I was convinced a day off would do me good. And it did. Friday, one week later, I felt better. After all, the cold now had now victims to conquer -- Ryan and my Mom. Yes, it was out to attack the two most stoic and stalwart people I know.

Mom got it first, curling into a quivering ball of sickness on the very day I started feeling better. On Saturday she was down for the count, cold, shaking and pretty sure she was nearing her end. At one point I swear she asked me just to put her out on an ice floe, which is possible with the winter we have been having. But I refused, and made her take some Motrin. She also insisted on taking a cough medicine called Buckley's, which I am pretty sure is a German aperitif due to the smell. She did start feeling better though, so there must be something to drinking poison. However, she still had to stay home from school on Monday. She doesn't miss school unless her hair is on fire, and even then sometimes she'll just put on a hat to keep in the smoke.

Ryan started showing signs of the wicked cold on Sunday, and by Tuesday he was sunk into the sofa. He has now been down for two days, which is longest I have ever seen him knocked down my illness. After all, this is the man who could have his hair on fire and be bleeding out of his eyes and still go to work. I could tell you more about Ryan while he's been ill, but I want to stay married. I think the following video pretty much explains it all though:



Now we're all just laying around the house. I'm still coughing, Ryan is still coughing, and Sally is about to move. And somewhere, in the distance, I can hear Jen laughing...