I'm home with the flu. I thought it was the plague, but it turns out there's a mutated strain of the flu that the vaccine didn't cover.
I feel like shredded ass on toast.
My everything hurts. Everything. My bones ache. My hair hurts, my teeth are tingly, my skin is sensitive. Name a body part, and it hurts. Plus, I am an enormous phlegm factory. I cannot stop coughing, which makes my brain hurt. Sometimes big gobs of stuff come up, which I find kind of interesting. I of course examine them, because if they are brown or green, well, it's headed to a bronchial infection.
In other words, I am incredibly disgusting. And kind of hateful.
It turns out that when I feel terrible, I either want to be left alone to die or be well taken care of. And that varies moment to moment.
I got sent home from work by a horrified boss yesterday - what was I doing infecting everyone? I sat down on my couch and was pretty sure I was going to curl up in a little ball and expire in a shivering lump of fleece-clad, comforter-covered misery.
When the boyfriend (or rather, the fiancé - a word I for some reason cannot take seriously or say in relation to myself without pronouncing it feeeYONsaayyy) called yesterday, I whimpered into the phone, "I'm just going to stay home to die by myself. You can of course have the ring back when I die but please don't give it to anyone else."
He said "Nonsense!" and came to get me.
I'm going to bet he regretted it. He gave me this hideous affliction, and I was all kinds of bitter.
And so, after a huge coughing fit, when I'd gotten my wheezing breath back, I was like, "You know even though I really love you? Right now I also hate you just a little."
He was all, "Yes, sweetie, I know. Now drink this."
I know I was a huge brat. I didn't want soup. I didn't want pasta. I didn't want anything. I just wanted to be left alo-o-one in my misery. Except, was he really leaving me alone? Don't gooo! Whimper whimper.
He got all bossy about eating something, since I said no to everything, and so finally I said OK, a little pasta. And then retched when he said he was putting pesto on it. In the end, I had plain pasta with salt.
Then he foisted some of his medication on me. He'd gone to the doctor that morning and she'd given him a myriad of medicaments.
I was all whiney and pouty and not wanting to swallow one more thing. I was lying in bed moaning, "It huuuuuurrrrts."
"What hurts, sweetie?"
The thing is, he knows. He went through the same thing. With none of the drama or whining or assertions of impending death. Or begging to be put out of one's misery.
And now he's gone for work for the rest of the week and I've been deserted. To perish alone. Except that he calls every couple hours to check on my progress.
He was telling me that on his day two of the illness, by this point, he was much better than I seem to be. What can you say but "Fine. You win." and mutter epithets under your breath?
I'm sure it's for the best he's gone. Because see what an enormous ass pain I am and how you never, ever want to be around me when I'm really sick?
Interestingly, I've realized in my misery that the only part of my body that doesn't hurt is my ring. The ring? Feels really fucking awesome.