Irony

The other day at work, some friends of mine and I were discussing how lucky we've been to not be sick the last however-long-we-hadn't-been-sick. My last drop-dead date was November of 2005. I remember because I literally thought I was going to die because I accidentally took too much codeine cough syrup. "Accidentally" because the inital "dose" I took did nothing for me, so I took another, equally large "dose". This consisted of basically taking a swig from the bottle, though it was, in my mind, a tiny swig. Twice. The problem was that I couldn't find anywhere in the bottle any justification for what "10 ml" should constitute--the bottom of the lid-cup that came with it, two tablespoons, etc . . . so I just downed a little bit. Well, ha ha . . . come to find out that my two swigs constituted roughly four doses. Couple that with the anti-biotics and other stuff I was on, and I was a walking zombie. One thing I remember semi-vividly was stumbling out of the bedroom the Sunday before Thanksgiving. Lori was talking on the phone to her mom about what we needed to bring, and I thought, "Dear crap . . . have I been asleep that long? Is it really Wednesday?" So I asked Lori, "What day is it?" Well, since she was deeply engrossed with the conversation, she just kind of gave me that "shut up . . . I'll get to you in a moment look," like you would expect from an uppity gate-keeper receptionist. Being in my addled state of confusion, I wasn't happy with that. "HEY. WHAT DAY IS IT?" Lori turned and looked at me with two eyes that, for all intents and purposes, would have had the capacity to bore tunnels from here to Denver. She said, "It's Sunday . . . go back to bed. You look like crap."

"Okay. Thanks honey."

Stumbled back to bed, woke up some time Monday afternoon . . . right around the time Lori was coming home from work. "Hi, honey! How do you feel?"

"Not sure, but I'm guessing this is what a hangover feels like . . ."

"Oh, honey . . . I'm so sorry. Do you need anything?"

"Yah. More codeine."

Took another swig of cough syrup and went back to bed until Tuesday.

Anyway, now that I've strayed so far from the original point of this blog, I might as well finish off my current thought, which in and of itself is rather humorous, but not so much.

So, as you can gather from Monday's conversation, Lori was really sweet and nice when she came home. It kind of irked me that she was so mean Sunday night. Well, ha ha . . . guess what? She wasn't. I had apparently hallucinated that entire conversation. She said that I only asked her one time what day it was, and that was while I was bracing myself between the two kitchen counters, theoretically so I wouldn't fall to the floor in a cellulitic heap of mess. Then she said that I stumbled back to the bedroom, propping myself up on the walls several times as I made my way down the corridor of death (read: 8-foot hallway from living room to bedroom). I had literally no recollection of anything like that. Kind of bizarre.

Okay, so now we're back to a point where I can actually address the original point of this whole blog: irony.

Friends at work. Discussing previous and most recent illnesses. Thanksgiving '05. Flash forward to three days ago. Thursday afternoon at work, I started feeling a little under-the-weathery, so I took some airborne. Helped, but just some. Went home, pounded half a gallon of orange juice, went to bed, got up, went to work. Friday was more of the same, so I took another airborne. It didn't help as much, but I had to stick out the day, so I trudged through everything that had to be done, then went home . . . and then it hit. The runny nose, the insatiable tickle in the back of my throat, the cold spells, achy joints . . . it was official--I was sick. I called my brother and told him that there was a very disticnt possibility that we wouldn't make it down for the party we were having to welcome Shariden and Brookie to the family, and he told me that most everyone in his house had been sick at some point during the week. So we decided to play it by ear on Saturday.

Ironically, I got up the next morning and felt rather okay. Didn't sleep very well, but I didn't have any of the old signs of being sick, so I thought "Great! Let's go to the party!"

In retrospect, what I should have done is stayed in bed all day, drunk another gallon of orange juice, and probably go to the doctor. Saturday night was one of the most rough nights I'd ever had sleep-wise; the cold came roaring back with vengeance like an unpaid mobster, and I literally prayed for death. Clearly, my wish wasn't granted. Pity, too . . . I'm pretty sure the afterlife can't be this bad. From my understanding, it'd be a break from all the maladies and woes we have to go through in this mortal existence. There are days where death would be preferable, but those days are so few and far between that they hardly justify the desire.

Especially when you hear little two and three year old girls scream, "DADDY!!!" and they run up and give you the world's biggest hug. Well, biggest hug as two little girls can muster, which, gotta tell ya . . . ain't much, but they're some of the best hugs in the world.

Crap. I just realized that I was asleep when my wife came home last night. Another long story for another day, but to summarize, her sister left her jerk husband finally. There are much more accurate, colorful words I could use to describe the nature of this boy, but for now, let's just say that most members on this side of the family wish he would die. Or, better yet, get run over by a mack truck and spend the rest of his life eating his meals through a IV hooked into his arm . . . if he has any arms left. That's the short of the long of it. My wife went over to her other sister's place, where everyone seemed to be gathering. Just guessing, but I bet it was really just that rough of a night.

May I please go back to bed now? Blogging from 3:30 until 4 in the morning just isn't the highlight of my night, ya know?