On Influenza
Having influenza is an exercise in frustration, a deep, gnawing irritation that extends beyond the fever and body aches. It’s the maddening feeling of being utterly incapacitated by something so mundane yet so overpowering.
There’s the betrayal of the body—one moment, you’re functional; the next, you’re reduced to a shivering, congested wreck. Simple tasks, like standing up or swallowing, become Herculean efforts. Your throat burns, your head pulses with a relentless, unholy rhythm, and every joint aches as if you’ve aged decades overnight.
Then comes the isolation. You’re quarantined, exiled from normalcy, doomed to a purgatory of bed rest, bland fluids, and lukewarm tea. The outside world moves on without you, and even scrolling through social media feels like an exhausting task. The brain fog settles in, making thoughts sluggish and fragmented—concentration is a distant dream, reading is impossible, and even watching a show is a test of patience.
Perhaps worst of all is the sheer relentlessness of it. The fever spikes and recedes, teasing you with the illusion of recovery before dragging you back into misery. Sleep is fitful, punctuated by coughing fits that shake your ribs and leave you gasping. Time distorts: was that nap ten minutes or four hours? The days blur into each other, a never-ending cycle of fever, chills, and despair.
And yet, at some point—perhaps after a week, perhaps longer—the fever breaks, the fog lifts, and the body, slow and battered, begins to remember what health feels like. Until then, though, all that’s left is suffering, soup, and the existential dread of ever getting sick again.