Monday, February 07, 2011

Interim: ThePeach is sick; still a drunkard

Part two of my tales out of the cafeteria is coming soon. But first I want to whine about being sick.


I caught a bad cold from – where else – work. First I brought it home to BadInfluence, when I was just a carrier of disease instead of afflicted by disease. BadInfluence, like all men, morphed into a whiney child at the first sign of mild sniffles. Somehow, this behaviour evoked a strange pity and primal sense of duty somewhere deep in my brain. Big man is sick. Big man is weak. Woman must heal big man. Grunt.

So, even though I was coming down with the same bad cold, I didn’t notice. I was too busy running to the store to buy popsicles, zesting lemon into glasses of water and standing over the stove making a vat of homemade chicken soup.

And then I woke up Friday morning completely and utterly diseased. Throat swollen, sinuses bursting, nose exploding, body wracked with fever. The mild cold that I gave BadInfluence had grown and festered inside me for two days, un-noticed, getting angrier and pricklier by the minute, until it finally emerged as the she-devil, mutated spawn of the original virus.

Death seemed both inviting and inevitable.

So I did the smart thing and went into work. When you work on contract, sick days aren’t really an option unless you’re hooked up to an IV bag and a catheter at the same time.

It was a long day. I immediately took to the couch in a fit of deliriums when I got home and let BadInfluence mother me. He rented a bunch of old movies, bought me some Dristan, pumped me full of neocitron, and picked up the snot rags that were piling up in a circle around my useless corpse.

The next day was much the same. But I had a goal: to heal by 10pm, get dressed and go to Spaz’s party. Spaz was throwing a big shindig for the journo-friends and damn if I was going to miss it. It didn’t matter if BadInfluence had to transport me there by air-ambulance – I was going.

But by 8pm I was still desperately ill. I’d laid perfectly still for 24 hours. I’d pumped my body with fluids and cold meds. I’d used so much Dristan that I’d dried out the front cortex of my brain. What else could I do?

The answer was right in front of me.

This is not a metaphor. There was a bottle of wine on the coffee table.

So, I drank a bottle of wine. Then I cried, passed out, woke up and sent BI to the convenience store to buy me some redbull because the wine? The wine was a mistake. Now I was sick, fevered, drunk and incredibly surly.

But I made it to the party. I kept up a steady dose of two parts redbull to one part vodka, repeated every 30 minutes. BadInfluence kept a close eye on me and stepped in whenever I started making surly comments to my coworkers or looked like I was about to fall over and have a seizure.

I toughed it out, like a good little trooper, until 2am. My fevered body could handle no more party. BI put me in a cab and half-carried me back into our sicky apartment. He thought I would just pass out, like a good little patient, and sleep peacefully.


This is when the redbull kicked in. I’m told I sang the entire soundtrack to Moulin Rouge while dancing topless in our living room. And then I tried to curl up and have a nap on the kitchen floor, and when BI tried to put me to bed I slipped out of his grip like a greased pig and sprinted around the living room – still topless, of course – waving my hands in the air and yell-singing “ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE! ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE! ALL YOU NEED IS LOOOOOOOVE-LOVE!” And then I passed out face-down on the couch.

I’m not sure if this story has a lesson or a moral. I’m not going to tell you not to drink when you’re sick and have a fever, that’s for sure.

I had a great time.



Anonymous said...

Ah, that sounds more like the hot mess we know.

I knew you were still secretly messy despite your conversion to happy coupledom :P

Anonymous said...

peach, you've got your groove back.

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