Hypochondria

I'm pretty sure I have West Nile fever.

Seriously. I've been sick as a dog since Sunday--Saturday, if you count the fact that I ended up going to bed earlier than the kids because I had a headache. I've had a fever the entire time. Headache, body aches. No coughing, no sore throat, no stuffy or runny nose. All of these are classic symptoms of West Nile. Not to mention that I've been bit by mosquitoes several times this summer, and I never wear bug spray. So, West Nile. That's my diagnosis, and I'm sticking to it--well, at least until I see the doctor in two hours and he/she laughs me out of his/her office.

Frankly, while I enjoy ill health as much as the next gal, I'm kinda getting fed up with this particular bug. I've been out of work all week so far, which is nice, certainly, except that I mostly lie around the house moaning, and that's not a whole lot of fun for anyone. Plus, Baroy, wonderful man that he is, is not the most nurturing of men. I suppose he could care less about how sick I am, but I don't know that I'd be able to tell the difference. So I'm still pulling at least part of my share of the household and kid chores. (My boss called yesterday around 5, and when Baroy told her I had taken Em to soccer practice, she yelled at him for making me go out with a fever. Hee!)

So that's the deal. Me=sick. Me=fed up. Me=not willing to admit it might just be some pedestrian, run-of-the-mill buggie making me so miserable. Me=clearly in need of even more psychopharmaceuticals.