Typhoid Debra

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So this afternoon we finally saw the doctor, who was curiously impassive to my digestive complaints.  My fever had broken down to the layman’s “low-grade” — elevated but not dramatically — and aside from a hacking cough and stuffy head and some serious fatigue, there was nothing discernibly wrong with me.

Despite our pathetic ramblings about my sad state of affairs, she remained unimpressed, until The Lovely Rhonda mentioned that I had indeed been tested for flu.  She wandered off halfheartedly to check as I got dressed, having been cleared for takeoff, and returned saying it was lucky I didn’t have any of those chronic health problems such as diabetes, asthma, etc. — since I did in fact have influenza.  I was still going home, just a lot faster and with a mask on.

The Lovely Rhonda, sainted as she is, has driven her progeny off to grandma’s for the duration, and my own spawn will remain at my ex’s instead of coming over here.  I am officially unfit for company.

There is a lot of controversy over flu shots, but I wish I had gotten mine.  Twenty bucks and two minutes of my time, perhaps a day of feeling a bit crappy, would be way better than this.

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