It doesn't rain in SoCal, until it pours, and I don't get sick, until I do.
I haven't been sick enough to miss a day's work since before COVID, so four years or so at least. But last week on my days off, some rando in my travels passed on their viral crap to me. I didn't think I was sick, no usual symptoms, except feeling worn out and 100 years old, but I knew I didn't feel right. I've been precepting a very good student, and didn't want to bail out on her last clinical rotations in the ED before her graduation.
COVID test Friday at work was negative, but I just felt sore everywhere, and rather as beat down as Jonah after the whale burped him up. Didn't feel feverish either, but when I checked my temp at lunch, it was 103°, and that was that. No squawk from the bosses about calling out after that.
Not having had the crud of any kind for over four years, I am reminded of how much I did not miss it. I spent most of the weekend in bed with jugs of water and orange juice, and a party-size bottle of ibuprofen.
I will be happy when this passes, but at least I found out I'm not dying, just envious of those that are, and am eternally grateful for the invention of Motrin.
Consequently I won't be climbing the tower to peck out missives until I feel a bit less like hammered whale droppings. Hopefully soon.
Kindly amuse yourselves with the free ice cream over on the right column blog list for a few days.