Flu. Not “flu”. Not “manflu”. Actual flu. Influenza A virus H1N1.
The next time someone tells me that they were off work yesterday because they had “flu”, I’m going to punch them in the face. That is, assuming that I don’t have flu, because if I do, I won’t even be able to lift my arm up. If you’ve ever had flu, you’ll know what I mean.
For the first two days you think you’re going to die. For the next five, you wish you had.
For minute after minute, the King Kong that is my immune system fended off the pesky virus biplanes. But then, eventually overwhelmed by their sheer numbers and tenacity, it chivalrously placed the beautiful lady carefully atop the skyscraper roof before dropping, Rand-like, into the street below. Across the family 6000 city, similar dead primates were being dumped on low loaders and heading off for the Vissershoek landfill site.
What ensued was a catalogue of vomiting, sweating, aches, pains, rigors, fevers, coughing and general high fever malaise which I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy. We lost days. The drugs were of little assistance, offering scant protection against the onslaught – like holding up a pillow to protect you from a freight train.
This all began (for me) on Saturday. Today is the first day I’ve started to feel even vaguely human. And in that time, REM split up, the Rand… just… died (what happened there?!?), I missed out on a birthday and my dad’s knee exploded.
I think – I hope – that we’re through it now. But if you have a little sniffle, then don’t call it “flu” unless you’re going to do that hard yards like wringing the sweat out of your t-shirt, losing 3 kilos in as many days and wondering who stamped on your head.
Notably (and unsurprisingly), the only people in and around our family who didn’t get sick were those who had the flu jab earlier this year – on my recommendation. Next time around, I’m going to take my own advice.