In the course of my 57 years I've stayed in a hospital once. The week of my birth. My parents took me home to Jamaica Plain. Since that day my health has been unchallenged by illness other than colds, poison ivy, and hang-overs. The last year I had thrived in the unhealthy climates of New York. One year without a serious ailment and last week I bragged to a friend, "I haven't been ill this year."
Two days later a cough invaded my lungs. My body was wracked by a low-grade fever. My strength was depleted by minimal exertion. I stayed home one day from work. I would have been fine if I had said nothing. My doctor's diagnosis excluded 'swine flu'.
"A cold. A summer cold. Nothing more." He suggested rest, fluids, and cough syrup.
I slept like the dead. I drank hundreds of gallons of water and juice. Theraflu was my sole form of entertainment. No beer. No wine. No pizza. Life was meaningless. I don't do sick well. My bed became my empire. I watched all of STARGATE-ATLANTIS Seasons 2 and 3. It's been one week. I almost feel better. I survived being sick.
The weirdest thing was that everyone else in New York looked even sicker.
But then they eat crap.
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