TomFlannery.com

So here’s how my Sunday went. After watching the Steelers somehow not mange to once again lose to a winless team (and getting to spend some time with my sister and her hubby, die hard Steeler fans visiting my mom for a few days, bringing their assortment of terrible towels with them) I drove home in a good mood, taking the long way as an excuse to get in some extra foliage watching along the Casey highway. Say what you want about NEPA, but for a few short weeks every October there is no place with vistas like this (as to that unanswerable question posed concerning the very existence of the Casey itself….”who wants to get to Carbondale faster anyway?”….whistle past it and enjoy the view..)

I was listening to an audio book in the car (new bio of Civil War General Sherman….excellent) and sipping on my 8th Diet Coke of the day. Normal stuff. I’d be home to see the 4:30 game on the tube, and then curl up with a book in an attempt to distract myself. Monday comes after Sunday. I dislike this. So I try to hold on to weekends as long as possible.

I was home about 15 minutes when it happened. I went from completely normal to a quivering, shivering ball of existential nausea. As if somebody hit a switch. No warm ups. Straight into the game son.

I figured it would pass.

It didn’t.

I wrapped myself in a blanket and determined to ride it out. It was the type of nausea that punishes you for every excess movement. It was the kind of nausea that as a 20 something fool I would frequently bring down on my own head while chasing girls and Rolling Rock bottles across state lines.

But I digress.

Laying on my back with my head slightly raised and my one leg crossed over the other was about the best I could do. Any deviation from this position sent my insides churning and my head spinning like a top. We all know that the only thing worse than vomiting for 16 straight hours is feeling like you’re going to vomit for 16 hours. The bucket at my side mocked me for sure, but served no other purpose. Any stimulation, and by that I mean any, destroyed me. Somebody turning on a light. Or spraying Lysol all around me (is this normal?). Or just reminding me to drink fluids. I’ve got a great family. They meant well. But this is the type of thing best not shared.

The clock moved. Intellectually I know this. There were no power outages. But there were times when I was sure the end of the world was at hand. It would remain 2:30am forever, and I would be trapped in this alternate universe with nothing to keep me company but my bucket, orange Gatorade, and a straw.

I dosed. On and off. I had to get up once, which was a bad idea but probably better than peeing the bed. I walked bent over, looking like somebody searching for dropped change on the floor. My stomach cursed me. My head bobbed back and forth like it was being hit with left jabs. Oh. And I had to be at work in a few hours.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t like working. It’s a nuisance. But I was raised with a certain ethic. Earn your sandwich. Whenever I’m forced to call off work the Irish catholic guilt works on me something awful. But another part of me doesn’t want to spread my own personal Ebola to my co workers, a few of whom I actually like. So what’s a poor slob to do? Bosses never believe you’re sick, so the dark side of me might enjoy coughing all over certain keyboards. But that’s a bit juvenile right?

I sent the call-off email at 4:30am. I spared him the details. The subject line said “sick” and the message body said “out today”. At my age I’m getting defensive over such issues of control. If you want proof I’ll hack up some sputum for you. Geez. (Damn guilt again…)

It’s been 20 hours since this all started. It’s not over yet. I can tell because I just got up and walked into the kitchen and my stomach said “it’s not over yet”. I made the mistake of passing a mirror. I’ve looked better. Currently I resemble one of the characters from “Trainspotting”. What I looked like at 2:30am can probably only be conjured up in the mind of Stephen King.

I know I shouldn’t go to work tomorrow. I can probably make it 8 hours but at what cost? I may wipe out the entire 3rd floor in the process. So I’m trying to assuage my guilt. A conscience is a terrible thing in these trying economic times.

In case it hasn’t come through in the above paragraphs, I’ve been known to be a terrible sick person. A ball-less whiner. The stereotypical guy. I plead sorta guilty. But I’ve been trying. Really I have. Normally I would have insisted my family witness my agony, just so they could see how I was being cosmically picked on. Maybe I’m getting old. Nowadays I prefer to hide behind doors and under multiple blankets, the better to keep up appearances. Especially when buckets are involved. Nothing to see here. Move along.

But when I catch a cold? I’ll bring that guy back. Promise. All will be right with the world.

In a bit….

-tf