Me and my flu at 4:30 AM.
Four fucking thirty aye em.
It’s not strong enough anymore. Somehow, having repeated it myself as the minutes have ticked by (two fucking fifteen aye em…two fucking thirty aye em) the epithet has lost all power.
My throat is clogged. It’s as if I’ve swallowed a drain plug. Every gulp is conscious, difficult, near-desperate, the flailing of a decked fish. As fluid cascades down my esophagus, I must swallow regularly. If I don’t, I’m forced to cough.
Three goddamned aye em.
The coughing, my God, the coughing.
When I cough, the plug reveals itself to be an oversize rusty bolt, tearing at a shredded windpipe. I fear I might blow it out. I half expect that when next I clutch at my burning throat I’ll come away with a handful of neck-flesh.
Three Jesus Christ thirty aye em.
I’ve gargled salt water. Taken a double-dose of Tylenol Flu. Drank glass after glass of water. Consumed hot water with a shot of Jameson’s, lemon and honey. Filled up and plugged in the humidifier. Sucked on hard candy. (Fearing I might choke while drifting off. Could I wake Amber in time? Would she, half asleep, recognize the universal “Heimlich me” grasping-at-throat sign?) Swallowed some prescription pills I was given at the Virginia Tech clinic two years ago in packaging that said something about congestion.
Four bastard aye em.
I want to go back to Tuesday night, to the worst of the flu. Give me fever dreams followed by sweaty chills with furtive reachings for the wedding present mixing bowl slash throw-up bowl. That was living.
Four holy shit aye em.
TV ads have warned me for years that most flu medicine will make me sleepy. Where can I get some of that? I’ve rummaged through drawers, boxes and cabinets for long-expired cough syrup. Nothing.
Four fucking thirty aye em.
There’s just nothing strong enough.
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