I’m sick. I’m not sure what kind of sick it is. The kind that makes me cough up chunks of my lungs. Not literally, mind you, but it sure feels that way.
I’m going to go out on a limb and blame this sickness on the coworker who came to work sick. I feel I can confidently put the blame squarely on her because I was locked up in a car with her for eight hours on Tuesday and another eight hours on Wednesday, and she was hacking and coughing the whole time. I’m not a virologist or whatever kind of scientist studies the spread of Coughing Up Lungs Sick, but the transmission of this bug seems like a no-brainer to me.
I was feeling fine when we left Tuesday morning, but by the time we got home Wednesday night, I had a cough that was starting to sound a lot like hers. I called in sick on Thursday and went in Friday for about an hour to finish my time sheet and clean up a couple things. I spent a lot of time flat on my back sleeping both days, and again on Saturday. It’s that kind of sick. I haven’t feel nauseated or even very tired, I’ve just never felt as though I was ever fully awake.
I’m still a little under the weather today. Still hacking, although it sounds a bit drier than it did before, not like I’m trying to bring up bits of tissue from the depths of my soul. I’m beginning to allow myself to feel optimistic that I might be over this by tomorrow. I hope so, anyway. Tim’s going to come over to burn some burgers with us and I don’t want to give it to him.
My Darling B has somehow avoided catching the bug, or if she has, she’s showing no symptoms yet. She has a very strange constitution when it comes to these things. Allergies kick her ass all the time, but a virus comes along and she’s just, Eh, I don’t think so.