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 innocuous
ly 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
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 cough
ing and turn
ing/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 needless
ly 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 stagger
of vital signs
. Then they tell me they need urine and blood samples. Lots of blood samples. About 20 cc
s 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
. I'm really beginning to hate life. He poke
s me, prod
s 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 strike
s 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
es, and exceedingly small evil lawn gnome
s. Also, I propose that I am delirious
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!