H3N2

It was day five of the second round. The nasty virus that had kicked countless healthy individuals to their knees, was back. Fucker even has a name. H3N2. The war between science and alternative facts painfully crawls along.

I was in the hurt locker big time. My lungs felt like the insides of a cement mixer. The globs of toxic mucus smegma I was trying to expectorate were thick, brownish-yellow and utterly grotesque. Think Alien. My throat and esophagi were irritated raw, rasping with excruciating pain. I was ramming cough syrup, thera-flu and Ny-Quill as if they were IPAs in front of the big screen on game day. As much as I tried to sleep, it was simply too painful - meaning the best I could hope for was a break - a small slice of blissful rest. A minute or two of peace. Precious unobstructed breaths.

Perhaps foolishly, I made all my appointments. My spin classes were staged as scheduled with only a knowing few seeing the chasm between my ordered level of intensity and my personal output. In the evenings, our PowerBarn sessions we all conducted on time, as scheduled. I tried my best to avoid direct contact and limit our congratulatory and tribe bonding fist bumping rituals in both volume and duration. I sneezed and coughed into my arm, taking it outside as much as possible.

I was trying my best to be both a courageous leader and conscientious and considerate team-mate.

Waltzing through five days of this is demanding. By day five I was mostly in a haze of doubt and dread constantly reminded of my fragile condition by the relentless ringing between my ears and weakness of knee.

I am logging the class attendance at the club, incredibly happy that the hour spin session (one of the most demanding we do) is over, when I hear a voice: Hi Kevin.

It is the guy I sold my cabin to. The guy whom I allowed to rob me blind in a fire sale. The guy that cut all my 200 year old cedar trees and demolished my art project. The guy that tried to swindle my former neighbors into a septic deal holding them hostage with a long-undone agreement I had signed 30 years prior. The guy that lied to me more than once. The guy who, if he had paid fair market value, would have allowed me to stay home while sick because I would have some financial security, instead of being forced into working while on the doorstep of death because I need the pathetic $35 pay check. THAT GUY.

I turn my back to him, sneeze into my palm and turn to shake hands.

Oh, hi Bill.