Ramblings of a 102° Fever

I am a bad patient.  No, scratch that:  I am a TERRIBLE patient.  Women are always saying what big babies men are when they are sick, and my conscience forbids me to deny the obvious.

The only thing that partially redeems me, I think (you’d have to ask my husband), is that when I am ill I tend to hide.  I crawl into bed, pull up the covers and basically surround the entire perimeter with “do not enter if you value your hide” vibes.  You know, cheery stuff like that.

My husband, naturally enough, IS the stereotypical bad male patient.  He lies in bed groaning while I do the fetch-and carry.  I don’t really mind, but it was rather funny when we BOTH got sick at the same time once.

Anyway, this upper respiratory thing I have has made the rounds of the town of Oneonta this time every year four years running and it usually decimates the entire population for at least a week and sometimes two. I’m on Day Four; we shall see how long it is before I start calling the doctor begging for a Z-Pak.

You would think that after twenty-four years of HIV/AIDS and almost twenty with Bipolar Disorder, a respiratory bug wouldn’t faze me.  And it wouldn’t if not for the fever:  my normal temp runes exactly one degree low (97.6°), and last night I spiked at nearly 103°. That’s enough to make anyone miserable.

Oh well, rant over.  We now return you to our regularly scheduled programming.


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