Down With The Sickness

I hate getting sick.

Unfortunately, the sickness doesn't ask for my opinion before moving in. And doesn't pay rent, either.

And yesterday afternoon, I had to do the unthinkable for me. I called my boss and said that I desperately needed to go home before I seriously hurt myself, which is something that I had never, EVER, done before in my entire life. It went against the entire work ethic I'd been raised with: if you can stand, you can work. That was something that my grandmother pounded into me with every little sniffle, cough, and minor health annoyance that cropped up during my childhood days. So having to say that I couldn't continue my scheduled shift was... Well, it was humiliating to me and completely counter to my work ethic.

But a temperature of over 102, severe nausea, and a complete loss of equilibrium tends to be a hint that there is something seriously wrong with the situation. Particularly when said nausea took hold in front of a customer and said lack of equilibrium knocked my sorry rump onto the ground. There are some hints that even I can't avoid, and those would be a definite qualifier for the whack-inna-head-with-sledgehammer level of obviousness.

And when I got home, I immediately crashed, burned, and imitated the unliving dead for a few hours, which is even more uncommon for me. Most people would understand that being sick would be a cause for passing out cold, but my nocturnally-associated biological clock kept insisting that it was only lunchtime. Fortunately, by now I have gotten up to the point of night where my normal bedtime is a mere hour away, so getting more sleep won't seem too unnatural to me.

I hate getting down with the sickness.