AT FIRST, there's just a little cough. Or maybe a sneeze or two. You think: "It's nothing. An allergy. An aberrant asthmatic flutter." But it lingers -- until the cough causes your chest to cramp, your throat to throb and your ears to ache.
You begin to understand the origin of such cliches as "cough your head off" and "sneeze your eyes out." You wonder if it's possible. You almost hope it is.
Everything hurts.
You'd give real money to anyone who could teach you how to have an out of body experience. Right here, right now.
You reach for every kind of remedy -- any kind. Vitamin C and herbal tea. Chicken soup. Hot toddies, laced ever so slightly with good, smooth Kentucky bourbon that sears your throat and helps you rest.
You want to kiss the hand of the pharmacy delivery man who brings the Penicillin the doctor ordered, but you settle for a "thank you", barely uttered before the words are shattered by a tubercular retching. You ponder the gentile term "stress incontinence", while you try to stop coughing long enough to suck down the first tablet.
The thermometer reads 98.7. Impossible! How could anything that makes you feel so bad be just a cold? Surely, it is The Flu -- some dire mutant strain that threatens all human life on the planet!
You get a fresh cup of herb tea and settle down in front of the TV, with your favorite afghan and your favorite movie, to consider life's recurring questions.
For instance: mucus? What is it for, if you only cough it up and spit it out? Why is it green? And why does your body feel the need to provide you with an endless supply of it?
Or, who figured out how to cover a paper tissue with aloe and still have it be dry? Does such an invention constitute a divine miracle? And if so, and if you could find out who the guy is, could he be considered for sainthood?
All relevant thoughts fade as you fall into a restful sleep. You wish! Thirty minutes later, you wake up coughing, unable to find the tissue box because your eyes have been glued together.
Funny joke.
Hah. Hah.
You stumble to the kitchen, tripping over the cat who attacks your fuzzy slippers, thinking them a rival for your affection. Grabbing the hand towel, you thrust it under the hot water and bring it dripping to your weeping eyes.
"Halleluiah! I can see!"
The phone rings.
"No. I can't come to the office. Can't you hear? I'm sick. I'm sick."
The very thought of it makes you nauseous and you find that paper bags are a handy thing to keep near the phone; and, though not waterproof for long, they are, for long enough.
Though you are part of the demographic group called "middle-aged baby boomers," you are happy to receive the next call -- from your mother. What would you like for dinner? She'll be right over . . . you "poor dear."
Maybe being sick isn't all that bad. Maybe she'll bring you a coloring book.
Lynda Case Lambert writes from Baltimore.