Tuesday night I got a sore throat. It came on quickly and was intense. It hurt a lot. Swallowing was miserable. Obviously the lymph nodes were swollen as the pain was sharp. Pitifully, I asked my dear sweet caring wife to get me some ice cream. Request denied.
After dragging myself to Wendy’s for a Frosty, the best sore throat medicine you can buy without a prescription, I sat in front of the TV and quickly ate the numbing ice cream. It didn’t work. I took some aspirin and got ready for bed.
I never really slept. I dozed lightly. The discomfort from swallowing brought me back to the surface of reality; a reality where I recalled vague dream remnants of tonsillectomies and tracheotomies and gargling with acid.
At 2:17 AM (I know because I looked), I gave up on dozing. With the lights still off, I got up. I bit the bullet and went to the hard stuff. I took a big swig of Nyquil. From the bottle. Without wiping the lip.
I hate taking the hard stuff when I need to work in the morning. I always wake up slow and foggy. I don’t like that feeling. It’s why I don’t drink. I like to remain in control. If you know me, it’s such an oxymoron-ism as I’m rarely in control.