This week I've had the flu. On Tuesday night I went down to Philadelphia for a conference, and by Wednesday morning I knew I would be that guy -- the one who coughs, the one who sits on the aisle so he can leave the room easily, the one no one wants to sit directly next to, the one who is obviously ill but in denial about it. So the conference was a roaring success.
Wednesday night, back home, was a disaster. After dinner I coughed so hard that I threw up my meal. Lying in bed I would wake up, shivering violently. Then I would feel incredibly hot, sweat coating my skin. A weird melange of images and thoughts was tormenting me -- snippets of songs I didn't want to hear, visions of a rich a chocolate cake that I worried would make me vomit. It was such a strange loss of control over myself.
The next day I didn't eat anything except a bowl of ramen. Poor L stayed home for the snow day to watch me and LB, who is also sick with a throat infection (not related, thankfully). I tried not to worry about work, and watched as my inbox filled with all sorts of requests, worries, questions. L brought home a Coke for me to drink, and I threw that up too.
On Friday L went to work, and the nanny came over to the apartment to watch Alice. I slept most of the morning away, then spent the afternoon stuck in the bedroom, hiding from the nanny. I didn't need her to see me in my fever state, in the same pajama pants and t-shirt I'd worn the last 72 hours. I felt like the crazy old woman in the attic in Jane Eyre. Finally L came home so I could emerge. I actually had the desire, and ability, to eat dinner, and I went to bed later than 8 pm, which was real progress.
Today I'm feeling better but as good as I had hoped. All things considered, this has been a fairly miserable week. I can't remember the last time I had the flu, but right now it seems like some kind of perpetual state of being that will never, ever improve.