That's Not Funny, That's Sick

It has been suggested that I don't get "a little sick". When I get sick, I go all out. Food poisoning, kidney stones, knee surgery. These are "Big Sick". I don't tend to get the sniffles.
On Friday night, I noticed my joints were a little stiff, so I took some Ibuprofen and headed out to dinner with my family. No worries - sometimes when I miss a day running I feel it in my bones. By early Saturday morning, however, it became clear that there was a storm brewing somewhere in my immune system. My sinuses filled, my throat began to close, and my head played the Anvil Chorus. I went to the medicine chest and started to line up my remedies.
By noon there was little that kept me connected to the human race. I had become a mutant with phlegm wielding powers beyond mortal understanding. My muscles had begun to scream and cry in a way that brought William Hurt in "Altered States" to mind. I watched, or was vaguely aware of Gene Simmons' reality show on in the background. Add to this my inability to find a proper temperature in which to lie in bed, and I had the makings of the super flu described in Stephen King's "The Stand".
I know that there is a strong psychological component to any illness, and I know that I had, to some degree, held my body at bay until the weekend. There was little or nothing to keep me from collapsing on Saturday. The week before had been a full one, with plenty of fourth grade drama and intrigue. I couldn't imagine missing a second of it. Just like I can't imagine missing a second of the upcoming week, which is probably why I find myself sitting upright for the first time in more than twenty-four hours. I can still feel the vestiges of my attackers - a little snot, a little cough - but overall I feel as though I have passed through the fire. Thanks to my family's kind attention and patience, chicken soup, and a fistful of over the counter pills, caplets and syrups, I am back on my feet. Tomorrow, after all, is a school day.