On Day 4 of my partner’s ongoing fever, I insisted he call his doctor. He’s currently laid up with a mean case of flu—the worst he’s had in his thirty-one years on Earth. His temperature fluctuates between 99° and 102°, flirting with 103°. He sweats out as much as he

The last time I felt this nauseated, angry and anxious was when I had morning sickness. I never threw up over homework assignments in high school. Not even when I was a sleep deprived, hormonal, overachiever taking an absurd amount of AP classes. I’m not pregnant, I don’t have the flu,

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I just spent the last few days in bed, sick. In that time I watched three seasons of “Sons of Anarchy” on Netflix and agonized over what to do if it was more than a little bug as I am currently uninsured. I spent a lot of time on the

Sore throat, congestion, a cough that sounds dangerously whooping, and more phlegm than you can shake a stick at comprise my current state of existence. I’ve basically been dying since Monday, but I’m using all my energy to emerge from a mountain of used tissues and Halls wrappers and help those

I am sick. It sucks. I feel like I have been thoroughly bitch slapped by whatever demon virus has invaded my body and after three days of quarantine, I see no signs of relief. Pity me now, please. The first day I started to feel it coming on, I hit