Light Hearted

I’d been cruising along—healthy for twelve consecutive years, dodging bugs like Neo in The Matrix. COVID? Nope. Seasonal sniffles? Pass. I was starting to believe I’d unlocked a secret immunity cheat code.

Then last week arrived with the subtlety of a runaway freight train.

It started with Vani’s innocent-sounding “I think I feel a cold coming on.” Forty-eight hours later she’s down for the count. Two more days and I’m right there with her—sneezing, shivering, conducting a full-body percussion symphony of aches and pains. Deluxe symptom package unlocked.

Sick-Day Boot Camp

I’d honestly forgotten what being sick feels like. Every breath felt like my lungs had switched to “legacy mode” and the OS was throwing fatal exceptions. Productivity? Gone. I had exactly two viable activities:

1. Horizontal napping
2. Changing positions so the mattress indentation could recover

Rinse, repeat, sneeze.

Separate Rooms, Same Playlist

We quarantined from each other—two germ factories in opposite corners of the house. (Picture dueling jazz trumpets at 2 a.m., coughing alternate solos.) Vani rallied first—she always wins the sprint—so she became Florence Nightingale, delivering steaming hot meals to my bunker.

Pharmacy Sticker Shock

Of course, recovery requires meds, so I raided the cough-and-cold aisle… and immediately questioned my life choices:

• NyQuil: Liquid menthol despair. Tastes like someone pureed a pine tree and added regret.
• Robitussin: Same childhood bottle? Think again. Fifteen bucks! Last time I bought one it was seven or eight. Apparently cough syrup now trades like Bitcoin.
• Backup plan: Two more “generic equivalents” because why stop when your shopping cart already looks like a mini-pharmacy?

If the viruses don’t bankrupt you, the receipts just might.

Appetite? What Appetite?

Food suddenly tasted like cardboard with extra meh. I lived on warm water—loads of it—because lukewarm was too cold and & ofcourse some hot tea helps but heartburn will kill me if I drink too many of those. Pro tip: when even pizza looks unappealing, you know your taste buds have abandoned ship.

Revenge of the REM Cycle

Silver lining: three nights of absolute coma-sleep. I haven’t shut down that thoroughly since my first Red Hat install froze at 99 %. Maybe my immune system moonlights as an over-zealous sysadmin: “User overloaded. Initiating force reboot… now.”

Who Invited the Virus?

The post-incident forensics review:

• Temple get-together? Plenty of hugs, lots of prasadam—highly suspect.
• Office pot-luck? Cakes from five continents—probable vector.
• Quick visit to our sniffly son in Ann Arbor? “Patient Zero Jr.” definitely has a ring to it.

Verdict TBD, but the evidence board looks like a crime-drama cliché.

Temperature Paradox

While all this raged, Michigan decided to stage its annual “Summer Preview Weekend”—a toasty 80 °F (27 °C). Birds singing, neighbors grilling, lawn mowers humming. Meanwhile I’m indoors wrapped in both a blanket and a comforter like some confused Arctic explorer. No amount of sunshine can outperform chills powered by a 101-degree fever. Irony noted, Mother Nature.

Takeaways From the Tissue Pile

1. Listen to your body before it yells at you. Sleep isn’t optional; it’s scheduled maintenance.
2. Stock cough meds before you need them—or start saving for the next Fed rate hike.
3. Tag-team recovery plans matter. First partner back on their feet wins temporary chef-in-chief duties.
4. Hot meals + warm water + rest > any over-the-counter magic. Though I’m still sending flowers to whoever invented eucalyptus cough drops.
5. Streaks are nice, but health is nicer. I’ll gladly reset the clock if it means bouncing back with a freshly patched immune system.

I’m now operating at “semi-human” status—just a lingering cough reminding me I’m not completely out of beta. Vani’s back to full power, already planting tomatoes. And because it’s Michigan, by the time you read this we’ll probably be back to 40 °F drizzle—so I didn’t miss all the sunshine.

Here’s to fresh air, functioning sinuses, and kicking off the next healthy twelve-year run. I am knocking vigorously on wood—and on the $15 Robitussin bottle.