Fever Dream

I can barely remember the last time I was sick. But by my estimate the last time I was this achy and sniffly was somewhere around January 11, 2008. I guess I’ve been well overdue for some kind of setback.

The little buggers always catch up with me when I’m down. That’s how I can remember the exact date of my last malady; there was a circumstance (which is of absolutely no importance to me now, and therefore will not be regaled here) that tripped me up around the time of January 11, 2008.

This time my illness arrived on the heels of a particularly surprising phone conversation with my mother. The afternoon was beautiful—one of the first really nice days this month—but I’d been cold all day. Really, I’ve been cold all month…not important. My tears on the phone surprised me, though, and in an agonizingly sparse monologue I let my mother in on all that had been gnawing at me. I haven’t been happy for months; I’ve been battling too much with my self. In a soothing, sage-like sigh I would never have expected from her, she dispelled my demons.

Just a few hours later, though, it all caught up to me. Every dirty doorknob I’d touched, every sneeze I’d walked downwind of, and every glass I’d shared with unassuming germ carriers came back to haunt me. My throat flamed up, my back ached, and my brain felt like it was trying to squeeze its way out of my skull.

After two nights of waking up at 2 to the sound of intoxicated sorority girls classin’ it up below my window, I decided to take something to help me fall asleep…and stay that way for a while. When I finally awoke at 7:30 (a good hour later than usual), I noticed that I’d been sleeping on the wrong pillow and the wrong side of the bed.

What dreams must I have forgotten by morning to have ended up on that pillow, on that side of the bed…with ash on my forehead.