Fever ramblings

My immune system is amazing. I say that not only because I rarely get sick, but because my immune system has a unique source of power: Fear. That's right; my body operates smoothly and fights disease valiantly out of fear of visiting the doctor.

Sadly, this system does not spare me from nuisances like the common cold or insanely dry skin and eczema. Apparently my antibodies have a little checklist they go through before they decide to get off their disease-fighting butts: Will this illness require a trip to the doctor? If no, then I get to experience the joy of a stuffed up nose or itchy skin. If yes, it's rally the troops and fight! fight! fight!

I did go to the doctor once, in my early 20s. I had a miserable cold and accompanying sore throat. After my best friend's untreated strep infection led to kidney failure and an eventual transplant, I figured I ought to get myself checked out. I had never had strep throat before, and so I'd never had my throat swabbed. I didn't quite know what to expect. When the tiny doctor (a middle-aged woman about 4'9" and 85 lbs) stood in front of me and stuck the stick all the way back, past my tonsils and halfway down my esophagus to the point that I just knew I was going to choke to death, my primordial fight-or-flight response took over: I kicked her in the stomach.

Not my proudest moment, obviously.

And it turned out I didn't have strep, so poor Dr. Whatshername got kicked for nothing.

I had my first fever at age 29. (That may not be entirely accurate. I may have been sick as a baby, and I did have the chickenpox at around age 5 or so; does that one come with fevers? In terms of what I can actually remember of my childhood, though, and certainly my adolescence and early adulthood, 29 was the first.) I used to check my temperature any time I felt a cold coming on. Having never experienced one before, I thought it might hurt like a sinus headache because a cool hand or cloth on my forehead would help me feel better. But no, the thermometer always said; you are totally normal.

One afternoon, about five months after the birth of my second child, I got really cold. I didn't think anything of it -- it was November or December in a slightly drafty house, and my poor circulation means I'm pretty much always cold -- so I wrapped up in a blanket and cranked the thermostat up to 80 degrees. Still had the shivers. I curled up in a ball on the couch and put the blanket over my head. Still freezing. I poked my head out and found some more blankets to add to my pile. I fell asleep there on the couch (luckily both girls were also napping) all curled up as tight as my muscles could get me.

DH, of course, came home from work to find our house a sauna. I stood up to greet him and every molecule in my body just ached. I followed him into the kitchen but walking felt like swimming through molasses. All of these sensations were so foreign that it still hadn't occurred to me that I might be sick. DH (being the smart doctor that he is) told me to sit down while he got out the thermometer. And what do you know? A fever of 103F!

My illness -- and the attendant fevers! -- lasted an entire week, at which point DH took me to get my chest x-rayed (my first x-ray ever!) because he thought I should be better already. As it turned out, I had a bit of pneumonia. (Oooh, that sounds like an exciting, important disease! Way better than a common cold!) I got an antibiotic shot into my hip and a course of pills to take for ten days and I fully recovered.

I had no more fevers ... until yesterday. The story of my second febrile illness is not as interesting as my first, so I'll spare you the details except to say that DH has officially diagnosed me with "that viral crap that's going around" and which Uno got hit with on Friday. Blah.

Two fevers in three years, after 29 years without a single one (that I can remember).... Obviously my immune system is not as usefully neurotic as it once was. Whom should I blame? DH, who has made me less afraid of medical professionals? (I've never kicked him in the stomach!) My sweet and adorable children who wear me down and suck the life out of me (and I mean that in the nicest possible way)? Should I blame my secret candy stash and all-around bad eating habits? (I never used to be the sort who had a stash.) Maybe all of the above...?

Anyway. Fever-schmever, there are children to take care of and a house to get ready for DH's birthday dinner (he turns 37 today, yay!) so I suppose I should stop the rambling, get out of my pajamas, and get down to business. Feel free to send some healthy vibes my way! Or at least a large dose of iatrophobia, since I seem to have lost mine and I need it back.


~RCH~