It seems to be the passage right of every
college student, nay, every being to live past the age of twelve. There comes a day when you contract a
mystery disease, which your friends will diagnose as the
Mongolian Death Flu, or "
That Flesh-Eating Virus" or
SARS.
It often starts off
innocuously enough. You have a mild sore throat, or perhaps a little
cough. Or maybe you just feel a
weensy bit puny. You feel tired, and so you go to be early. When you wake up in the morning, you can't move. Not necessarily because your muscles have all quit in vast
revolt, but because it hurts too damn much.
Perhaps you will be a good, sweet,
conscientious carrier of
pestilence and suffering and go to school or work, or perhaps you will be a good
citizen and just stay the heck home. In either case, it soon becomes necessary to get out of bed, at least to
call in sick or head off to the
bathroom and
curse all the gods. This is when, if you are me this morning at 8:30
central time, you fall on the floor and begin crawling.
Often, you will go to the
doctor, eventually. Perhaps your roommate will get worried and tell you to go. Perhaps you will get worried and
cajole your roommate into setting up an appointment for you. Perhaps your roommate will be unable to sleep due to your
coughing/
moaning/
tossing and
turning/
general bitching/etc., and will
toss you in the car and
drag you to the doctor herself because
she just can't take it anymore.
Let me pause for a moment. This is where I become
needlessly self-specific, likely because I am bordering on
delirious. I make it to the doctor and cough on the legions of
elderly people and babies in the waiting room. I should feel bad about this, but I'm too tired and behind on my work to care. They invite me into the actual examination room, eventually, and take a
staggering
array of
vital signs. Then they tell me they need urine and blood samples. Lots of blood samples. About 20
ccs worth of blood samples. I do not like this.
Once that
humiliation is over, I finally get to see the doctor, and get to
lie in state on a crinkly paper bed while I shiver in my
crinkly paper
gown. I'm really beginning to hate life. He
pokes me,
prods me, talks about where his kids went to college and where they're going to medical school. He asks me if I'm
pregnant (no), if it might be a
urinary tract infection (I wasn't aware those caused leg
collapse), if I'm clinically depressed (I wasn't aware that caused severe
vertigo), then finally tells me it's probably just from living in a
dorm. I do not live in a dorm. I live in an
apartment building at least a
mile from the nearest dormitory. He tells me they'll run some tests, and it's probably nothing.
If it's nothing, then why and I so sick my follicles are crying out in pain?
Ah, but now I am passing through this right of passage, the nebulous Mongolian Death Flu that
strikes down so many in their
prime. And you, dear reader who has surely experienced the sickness-that-surpasses-all-others, didn't it give you a good
war story? Didn't it turn out to be a fun
cocktail party tale? Don't you wish you'd never had to deal with it?
In conclusion, I propose that we come up with a highly effective
PCR system that can test any blood sample for any variety of
bacteria,
viruses,
retroviruses, and exceedingly small evil
lawn gnomes. Also, I propose that I am
delirious. Wheee!
Feel free to vote as you see fit. However, please be nice and abide by the requests set forth in the wonderful Fuck Me General Public Disclaimer (many thanks, getzburg!). No, it isn't even vaguely bloody a propos, but I like it! Whoo, the room is spinning!