..In which I recount divers signs and encounters with this year’s plague..

The PlagueThis being the order the divers signs and encounters were received…

  1. Denial.  “I don’t really believe this. I am not getting sick;  no, this is nothing.”
  2. Semi-Denial.  “Seriously.  This is really not happening.  It’s  just like – dust.  Or something.”
  3. Snot.
  4. More and more snot everywhere, nose, throat, ears, eyes, tear ducts, eyelashes, eyebrows.  Dried snot, wet snot, green snot, clear snot.  You are the walking coffee table book of snot..
  5. Coughing and snot.   Big rolls of toilet paper everywhere.
  6. Snot so bad you can’t hear much of anything.  Snot so bad if you endure any change of altitude you feel like a tennis ball container being compressed beyond industry standards.
  7. Receding snot.  And all remainining snot heads towards the lungs, where you feel vaguely alarming chest pain.
  8. 24 hours of the “unproductive,” painful cough.  This is the cough that makes your ribs hurt and your head ache and your eyes flash lightning.  It serves no purpose whatsoever.
  9. Bulging, burning eyes.
  10. Fever.   Chills.  Someone has just thrown a cloak over your shoulders, and it is lined with 10,000 staples.
  11. Shaking, arctic chills.   Bone cold.   Climb under the covers and demand all the kids bring every blanket in the house.
  12. Green Advil Bomb and Hall’s Triple Action cough drop drug abuse.
  13. False calm.  Eye of the hurricane.  You work out.  You have a glass of wine.  Health is returning.  Life is good.  You are  a fool.
  14. Chills.  Headache.   Unproductive cough.
  15. Fatigue.  Massive, debilitating, catatonic lack of energy that descends like a blanket.  Get to bed or die of a head injury, hitting the floor.
  16. You don’t even feel like sex.   This is extremely alarming.  You begin to see yourself as an old, moldy Salmon, about to turn over and go belly up in the stream bed.
  17. Sleep.   You don’t feel guilty about sleep anymore.  Unlike your normal pattern, you actually sleep six hours in a row.   This is sick and depraved and you know it, but you allow it to continue.
  18. The last piece of mucous in your body decides to lock itself right on top of your gag reflex and you debate throwing up.  You would rather juggle rattle snakes over throwing up, so it’s a hideous stand off, right over the kitchen sink.
  19. You realize 48 hours have gone by without any Advil.   You squint, unwilling to trust anyone anymore.  You look into the darkness, and you ask the question outloud:  “trying to fool me, bitch?”  Your wife stirs from her sleep.  “What did you say?”
  20. It really is mostly over with, but you feel like a man made out of rice paper for three days, and you don’t care.   You watch a lot of Netflix.