The flu

I'm sick.

I know what you're saying. Oh, hangnail? Sniffles? Blister?

No, I can tell you that I am actually sick this time, and prove it to you: I am not complaining, and I've stayed home from work for two days.

As I am sure you have read over the years, I am a bit of a wimp when it comes to the minor ailments in life. I moan and groan and act like a giant baby, which my wife just simply loves.

But this time is different. I am sick, sick, sick. There is no complaining. Can't complain when you are unconscious for 54 of a consecutive 60 hours. I have the flu or a flu-like virus.

Doesn't really matter because it has laid me out with a major league haymaker.

It's kinda like the guy who is standing there in front of the pile of rubble that used to be his house, and the reporter asks, "Do you think it was a tornado?" Does it matter?

I went to bed Saturday night, not realizing what was in store for me. I woke up around 5 a.m. and noticed I was soaking wet. I mean soaking.

I reached up to my forehead and felt sweat just streaming off my face. I was sweating like Louie Anderson in a cranked-up sauna. Not my typical Sunday morning.

I stood up at the side of the bed, sweat dripping down my face. I took a step. Wow, who knew someone was waiting to hit me in the left hip with a baseball bat.

Took another step. Right hip. I sat on the edge of the bed and decided to pass the time by coughing for the next hour, occasionally holding onto the dresser so that I did not hurl myself out of the window.

My wife woke up. "Are you OK?" she asked. "I'm finACKACKACKACKACK." I said.

I changed clothes and climbed back into bed. I slept off and on for a few more hours. Soon, the kids were up, and they apparently want breakfast every morning.

I opted to get up, hoping that being vertical would help.

It didn't.

I downed some medicine and headed back to bed. I woke up a few hours later, soaking wet again. This wasn't going to be good.

I decided to take my temperature. I don't remember the exact number, but it was somewhere around 120.

The rest of Sunday was pretty much the same - cough, sleep, sweat, medicate, repeat. It was the least enjoyable afternoon of Sunday football I can recall.

By late Sunday, I tried to eat something. Four saltines and I was stuffed. Back to sleep.

Sunday night/Monday morning was one of my more exhilarating night's sleep, because time had become a swirling warpzone of reality and NyQuil-based visions.

Several times I woke my wife up to ask her if various scenarios were taking place. ("Hey, did I just see Chevy Chase head to our kitchen to cook us eggs?")

Monday morning played out much the same way that Sunday did - sweaty, coughy, fevery and drowsy. It's like I was four rejected dwarfs.

One thing I noticed: I was told by a doctor to stay away from crowds, including work.

He told me the kids could stay at the house because, as he said, "You don't have bubonic plague."

But he said to avoid contact with them until I was better.

Turns out, when you sweat your clothes soaking wet four or five straight times, it's quite easy to have people avoid contact with you.

My wife, being as kind as possible, said on a few occasions, "So wouldn't a shower feel nice?" "Why not go take a hot shower?" She finally dropped subtleties. "Hey, you kinda smell like Peyton Manning's shoulder pads. Into the shower, stinky."

So I'm told that this thing can go anywhere from three to seven days. Seeing as how I am writing this on day three, I would greatly prefer it to be on this side of the estimate.

I'm going to continue trying to do this without complaining, because I need to be a soldier and brave my way through this.

Besides, I can't use up all my complaining. What happens if I get a hangnail?