Hey, 98.6, it’s good to have you back again

I recently learned an important lesson in biology and anatomy, and probably many other scientific fields that I am not aware of.  Just like nature abhors a vacuum, the adult human body abhors a fever.  As I lie curled into the fetal position on a pleather couch in the lobby of a doctor’s office (trying desperately not to think of the number and type of germs on said couch, as my cheek pressed onto the synthetic fabric), I was acutely aware of the awesome workings of all of the systems that make us whole.  Had I not been disoriented and suffering from head-to-toe excruciating pain, I might have thumbed through one of the medical journals on the coffee table.

On Wednesday night I took a magazine to bed for some light reading before going to sleep.  It was then that I first noticed a tinge of a sore throat.  In a few hours, I would wake with a more noticeable tightness in my throat and a headache.  By the time I got up that morning, my entire body was achy and I had a low fever.  Great.  I don’t have time to be sick.  Further adding to my frustration was the dead car battery awaiting me in the garage.  Once my husband had done his magic with the jumper cables, I was off to deliver my daughters to their schools, with the admonition not to turn the car off until I was at the auto shop.  When I made my first stop, after much squinting at the road due to the massive headache, I hopped out to assist with car seat buckles in the back.  That was when I was blind-sided by a giant wave of nausea and the closing black vortex that alerts you that you may soon lose consciousness.  I recovered, dampened with sweat, and finished my carpool duties.  I still had to get a new battery, and happily paid to have it installed.  Then I went home and crawled in bed.

My reports to my husband and mother (you always call your mother when you don’t feel well) were met with the same pragmatic response: “Go to the doctor.”  What?  I’ve had flu-like symptoms for a whopping 12 hours max.  What kind of weenie would I be if I went to the doctor now?  What would they say, “Take Tylenol and drink lots of fluids”?  I’m not paying for that.  And then, as if a message directly from my body’s central intelligence agency, I started to shiver.  With a fever now over 102 degrees, I had the chills.  My husband graciously picked the girls up from school that afternoon, and quarantined me.  Fishing, I called the doctor’s office to see if they had diagnosed a case of flu yet this year.  The receptionist told me I’d need to just come in.  She’s been trained well.

After what would have been dinner time, except for my utter lack of appetite, my husband came to check on me.  I was under three layers of blankets and shaking violently.  My entire body hurt like I had just been pried from a vehicle totaled in a near-fatal car crash.  The chills worsened this; as my muscles jerked in tight little spasms it felt like they may break the very bones they were attached to.  I would have begun crying at this point, but my head hurt too badly.  My fever was about 103.

Beginning at noon on Thursday, I took acetaminophen and ibuprofen alternately every three hours, with no relief.  My fever ignored the “fever-reducing” properties of each drug, and my body dismissed the purpose of pain relievers altogether.  By that night, finally warmed enough to stop shaking, I was able to eat a little chicken and rice soup and drift off to sleep.  Surely I would feel better in the morning.  Sleep was fleeting, and I never missed a three-hour interval because I was already awake and miserable.  Okay, okay, I would go to the doctor. 

I dragged my body around the house, avoiding the shower and the idea of feeling even colder once I was naked and wet.  My husband took the girls to school at noon, telling me sternly to shower and go to the doctor.  (Do we all become children when we are sick, or do people just treat you as if you were?)  My throat was even sorer and tighter than before, and it felt like my eyes were burning.  Time to break out the ear thermometer, just to check.  Oh my God!  Left ear: 105.1.  Right ear: 105.3!  Don’t people fall into comas at this temperature?

Quickly, I power up WebMD’s site, briefly noting how much physicians must love how easy it is to self-diagnose in the Internet Age.  I discover that 105 is indeed abnormally high and that I might want to take a lukewarm shower — not cold, as that could actually raise the body temperature by inducing more shivering, I had learned.  I called my husband to come pick me up and drive me to the doctor.  I was just too dizzy and faint.  Even he sounded alarmed at the temperature reading.  Now, feeling a little slow in mind and body, I managed to shower and dress.  This took all of the 30 minutes before my husband arrived (even though I omitted the unnecessary tasks, like brushing my hair), as five minutes of exertion left me with vertigo and out of breath.  Drinking a large cup of apple juice, I staggered to the passenger side of his truck, using his arm as a stabilizer.  The drive to the clinic was a blur.

All of that to get back to where I started this little vignette, on the pleather sofa in the doctor’s lobby.  The visit itself is also a blurry memory.  There were comments on the heat rising off of my skin, on rapid onset of symptoms, the mention of flu, strep throat.  The shower and juice had helped tremendously; the oral thermometer read 102.9.  Flu and rapid strep tests were negative; urinalysis showed acute infection.  The doctor said that there was definitely an underlying cause, but that it was not an obvious one.  More lab work ensued.  Blood was drawn, and then I had a chest x-ray revealing pneumonia-free lungs.  Diagnosis?  Not sure, but here’s Tylenol, three shots in the butt and a prescription for antibiotics.  You should feel better by bedtime.

And I did.  With the fever fast subsiding, I finally got a little sleep and precious relief from the full-body aches.  By dinner time, I was ready to eat a little.  Only the sore throat remained, and in comparison, that was nothing.  Just a Friday night with the promise of sleeping in the next morning.  The miraculous human body had run a gamut of conditions in the previous 48 hours.  Once again on autopilot and with the help of pharmaceuticals, it began to mend.