Getting My Ass Kicked

What I thought was a minor sore throat (that I was milking for time off work), turned out to be the beginning of a full-blown cold. I’ve spent the last four days in a haze of sneezing, coughing nastiness.

By Thursday afternoon, this cold had officially resonated in my chest, a welcome relief from the fury of sneezing, until I recalled the events leading to Sara’s cousin’s death. The heaviness in my chest threw me into a fit of panic that I haven’t experienced since my last major throat collapse.

By the time five o’clock rolled around, I was frantic; convinced that the bacterial infection in my lungs was moments away from causing organ failure and heart attack. I ran full speed to the car, where Rey waited to pick me up, burst into tears and begged to go to the hospital.

Rey, experienced in dealing with my hypo ways, calmly refused. Hyperventilating, shaking and sobbing, I spent the fifteen-minute ride home trying to convince him of the seriousness of my situation.

We passed the hospital, and shortly after we arrived at the house, I realized that it was dinnertime—a time I take very seriously—and that I was in no shape to head out to my favorite restaurant for beers and burgers. So, I snapped out of it, drank some generic DayQuil and apologized to Rey for my breakdown.

I forget the power of my hypochondria. Forget the power of my mind. In those minutes making up the car ride home, I truly, truly, truly believed I was on death’s doorstep. So, I guess the bottom line is I got my ass kicked; once by my pathetic cold and again by my crazy mind.