Then, your eyes start itching, your nose starts running, you start coughing, and you've been to the pharmacy so many times they've hung your picture behind the counter as a possible Zicam junky. But, for the first time in your smug medical history, the Zicam isn't working, so you end up heaving it into the woods while in the first delirium of fever.
Then, you crave your bed as you would the arms of a lover (I've always wanted to use that metaphor) and you won't leave it for days. You start to ache. Not like when you've just been to the gym, and not like when you fell off the ladder trying to replace the motion-sensor lights on the corner of the garage roof ... please, like I've ever done that. When I say you ache, I mean that everything you OWN hurts: you can't cough, because your chest aches ... you can't smile, because your cheeks ache ... you can't pull the comforter up because the weight of it hurts your legs ... you can't shoot yourself, because your fingers ache too much to pull the trigger. You just have to lie there ... moaning ... unmoving ... praying for death.
You cannot enjoy watching the soaps, because your head hurts too much to remember how many fatal illnesses Mitch had before he was finally knocked off by falling out of the fire tower while making love to Erica. And, you can't enjoy all the treats folks might bring you, because your teeth hurt too much to chew. And, if you can't have food or television, well, what's the use in living?
Oh, sure, you can go to the doctor, but he'll just look at you like you're another moron who has wandered in looking for a cure for the flu, and of course if he had that, he'd be sharing the stage with Oprah instead of just being an incredibly wealthy doctor. So, he wears a mask and asks you questions from the hallway, and if he must touch you, he uses gloves, or if possible, a robotic arm. Then, he says go home, get plenty of rest and fluids, and if you aren't better in two weeks, let him know. And, you're thinking, "Did he just say two weeks? Naw, he's got to be kidding, what, does he think I am, a moron?"
But, one day you reach your absolutely lowest point, and with what you believe is your very last breath, you call your lawyer to update your will. You'll feel better the next day.
One might think, after reading this, that one could simply outsmart the flu, then, by calling one's lawyer on the first day. One would be very, very wrong. The flu is crafty, my friend, as well as vicious, because I haven't told you the worst part: when you are finally up and around and telling everyone how you'd recently survived a near-death experience, a few days later "it" will, I kid you not, strike again. This time, you will be sleeping peacefully, and suddenly you awaken at 2 a.m., just in time to sprint to the bathroom and "lose" everything you've eaten since last March.
Now, people, I apologize for the images I've conjured, but I'm trying to warn you as calmly as possible: "It's" here! Take cover! Hide your children, lock your doors, and wash your hands every 15 seconds! Because, there is one thing that's even worse than the flu: my friend called to say her husband had come home sick two days before, hit the bed, and was still there. Her 7-year-old, Luke, got it the next day, followed closely by Will, her 9-year-old, and Mack, who's 8. Four sick males -- isn't that the seventh ring of hell? Poor thing, she's been tending all of them day and night, with no one to help, because her friend is terrified of getting it all over again. (The guilt isn't nearly as horrible as the flu.)
She called me from the pharmacy last night, where she was getting a prescription for one of them. It was her first trip out of the house in days. I told her to enjoy it, maybe take in a movie, but she was in a hurry -- she just had one question: "So, do you think this Zicam is any good?"
Vicki Wentz is a local writer and speaker, and a Chapel Hill teacher. Readers may contact her at chh@heraldsun.com, or c/o The Chapel Hill Herald, 106 Mallette St., Chapel Hill, NC, 27516.
