The melodramatic tyranny of man flu
It came on so suddenly. I was sitting at my desk at work when my laptop’s screen brightness kicked out and stabbed me, viciously, in both eyes. At the same time, the normally asthmatic and ineffectual air conditioning focussed a freezing blizzard at me, the frigid swathe of air pounding every muscle in my body into a shivering pall of Parkinson’s-like tremors. Out of nowhere, an invisible sack dropped over my head, blanking out all sound – making my chatty colleagues seem as if they were trying to speak to me across a huge wind-swept tundra.
Clearly, death was at hand: I was about to die of Ebola, and fever, and drama. Or man flu. I was too wrecked to care about the difference. I typed my team a searingly emotive farewell email, letting them know that my final hour had come, and I was going home to die in the comfort of my own bed. My shivering fingers probably allowed several typos to creep into that final missive, another sure sign of my impending end. I shut down, and bravely went home.
It has been 36 hours since then. I am waiting for that final death knell. Or perhaps I am already dead, and am just not aware of it. (You hear about this sort of thing on TV a lot…)
Cold sweats drenching bedsheets. Rapid and catastrophic muscle tremors – or shivers, whatever. Pounding headaches. Dizziness. Shocking sensitivity to light. These are not the comforts I left the office to come home to death for.
If I am not already dead, it cannot be much longer now. The veil is obviously drawing closer to smother what little fevered life lingers in these weak and tremulous limbs.
Tell everyone I love them.
© Dave Luis 2014. All Rights Reserved.