Day 1:

Crap. Wake up with sore throat, and the deeply unpleasant sensation of snot running down the back of my throat.  Crap.  Really don’t want to waste a few days of my blissful time off having a sore throat.  CRAP. Sigh. Pop an Advil and head out on the errands I was planning anyway.

afternoon:

Snurfle. Snort. Dear god, this post-nasal drip is like someone is slowly, repeatedly massaging the back of my throat with a cheese grater.  Loathe.  Go to CVS to purchase decongestant.  YES, smug pharmacy tech, I want the real stuff.  The stuff you keep behind the counter.  The stuff that requires me to show 15 forms of ID and swear an affidavit promising I’m not running a meth lab in my basement.  That stuff.

evening:

More drugs.  Moooooooore druuuuuugs.

Day 2:

Sore throat improvement. Dramatic uptick in snot production. Begin rapid progress through family-sized box of tissues.  Proceed through day as normal, albeit at a slightly slower pace.  Fall asleep on couch at 8pm, sleep for 12 hours.

Day 3:

Still snotty. Sore throat has, maddeningly, returned. This feels unfair. Rhapsodize passionately to husband about my view that once a symptom has passed, it should stay gone. Finish family-sized box of tissues, begin carrying around a roll of toilet paper for nose-blowing purposes.

Day 4:

Snurfling continues, but marked improvement in number of nose-blowings and throat discomfort.  Experience a few delicate bouts of coughing.  State smugly to husband that I have “turned a corner”.

Day 5:

Lingering congestion.  Coughing has moved from “delicate” to “full-on consumptive,” but at least it’s bringing up the yuck that’s stuck in the lungs.  Sore throat gone. Decide I’m well enough to attend friends’ wedding this evening.  Yes, I’ve definitely kicked this.

4:30 pm, driving to wedding:

Hm. Throat is beginning to hurt again.  But! Wedding! Power through!

10pm:

Um, not feeling so hot. Well, more precisely, feeling far TOO hat. Demand husband test forehead using age-old back of hand technique. “Very hot,” he reports.  Room’s a little fuzzy.  Perhaps this is the moment to make our exit.

10:25 pm:

Not going to make it. Shivering. Teeth chattering. Pull over when I feel like I might pass out.  Make husband drive the rest of the way home as I sit in a ball on the front seat, hallucinating.

11pm:

Fever is 103.  Husband makes up bed on couch to avoid sleeping with wife who now appears to be dying of plague.

Day 6:

Death’s door. More fever.  More drugs. Sleep much.

Day 7:

Hack hack hack fever hack hack hack praying for death.

9pm:

Receive email from friend who reports that three of our mutual friends have been diagnosed with swine flu. Begin frantically googling swine flu symptoms. Become convinced I am dying of swine flu. Impose self-quarantine. Send husband back to couch-bed so as to protect him from deadly swine flu (from which I am clearly dying).

Day 8:

Wake up and discover that snot has turned dark, menacing green.  Call doctor.  Miraculously get appointment right away. Doctor, strangely, seems unimpressed by my recent exposure to many swine flu victims, does not think I have swine flu.  DOES think I have raging sinus infection. Receive antibiotics. Spend day on couch, catching up on very important tv reruns.

Day 9:

Finally start to feel human again.  Sort of.  Realize I’m hosting a bridal shower in 48 hours. Commence stone cold panic.