Exiled

I think the best thing I can say for myself is that I don't have a fever.

This matters little.

First of all, I feel like I have a fever.

And not a little one, either.

Something closer to 102.5 degrees, more like.

That's more than four degrees higher than anything my thermometer has registered.

Stupid thermometer.

Also, my head is just waiting for ground control to issue the official countdown.

It's pretty much ready to blast off.

You know, contents under pressure and all that.

I don't know which is worse: the intense congestion that seems to have added immeasurable tonnage to the weight of my head or that parched, scorched-earth feeling that follows the ingestion of any type of antihistamine, as if someone had held me down, thrust special attachments over my mouth, ears, and nose, and then turned the vacuum-cleaner setting to "industrial strength" and waited for me to lose consciousness as every atom of moisture was systematically sucked from my being.

This morning I felt so dry that I was sure a scratch or cut would yield crystallized blood.

Or that watching a tearjerker might transform me into a human salt shaker.

Needless to say, I have gone nowhere near the ICU.

Not since Saturday afternoon.

And that is much worse than the congestion and the desiccation combined.