So, it was either 9 in the morning or just after 2 p.m. It was hard to tell because the clock on the bedroom shelf was fuzzy and inscrutable. Those dastardly numbers seemed to float across the walls, too fast and erratic to be captured by human vision. 

It didn’t matter, anyway. My only mission, as I lay in sweaty misery, was to get word to work that I was down for the count, and who cared what time it was, anyway? 

My phone was on the nightstand just a few short inches away, but it might as well have been out in the cold fathoms of deep space — to reach the wretched thing, I would have to extend parts of my body out from beneath the blankets and I knew full well that the second I did so, the chill of a thousand graves was going to descend upon my clammy flesh. 

I sent one arm out from under the blankets, willing to sacrifice the limb to get this unpleasant job done. My hand clutched at the phone, lifted the device in triumph, and then promptly dropped it. 

Beneath the blankets, I uttered a phlegmy curse. 

To retrieve the phone from where it had fallen, I had to sacrifice even more body parts and that deathly chill was on me like an embrace from a cadaver. I shook, I shivered, I uttered more garbled cries of rage and woe. 

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Phone in hand at last, I squinted at the blurry screen, trying to summon the email program so that I could send off a death rattle message to the appropriate editor. 

I poked at the screen with one trembling finger in an attempt to hit the M key, but it was like trying to jab at a single molecule. I hit the P key instead and my phone politely pulled up the address of a pizza joint I frequent. 

I hit the S key on a second attempt and the V on the third. By the time I managed to pull up the address I was after, I was blubbering openly and drooling all over myself. 

It was time to write: 

“My dearest editor,” I began. “I regret to inform you that I have fallen gravely ill and subsequently find myself unable to perform the duties for which you so generously pay me. Hearken! And accept my greatest apologies for the unexpected turn of events that has rendered me so invalid as to betray the faith you keep in your bosom for my loyal service…” 

That’s how it sounded in the bubbling soup inside my head, anyway. What I actually wrote, was: “Sickk. PIossibly dyingrr. The faieries are risingg out of the cat litter boxx to spirrit me away…” 

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That last bit was the result of delirium that set in before I had a chance to send the email. Strangely, the editor knew what I meant and marked me out as sick due to flu and possible fairy-borne contagion.

The deed was done, and now I could add guilt and shame to the symptoms of this vile sickness. 

I hate calling in sick. HATE it. 

First and foremost, to call in sick to work, one has to admit to another human being that his flesh is so weak that he can be taken down by wee little invaders not even visible to the naked eye. 

I mean, it’s just embarrassing. 

I’m one of those guys who goes swaggering around all the time and telling anyone who will listen how I never get sick. Never. Why, I’m such a sublime specimen of man, the colds and flu bugs that drop mere mortals all the time just fall away dead at the sight of me. 

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I am the very picture of health and vitality! Watch me lick this door knob and come away unsullied! 

And most of the time, it’s true: I rarely get sick. When I DO find myself sick or injured in some way, I will do my very best to pretend that I’m NOT sick or injured — who wants to exhibit weakness by admitting to being hobbled by a common cold or busted ribs? 

I’m like a cat that way. I’d rather crawl away and hide than to confess my illness and expose myself to the mercies of the other jungle beasts. 

But alas, one can’t always macho his way out of an illness and so sooner or later, the routine of calling in sick is a necessity. And as I was going through the motions to send that eloquent email last week, it occurred to me that we have it kind of easy these days. 

Why, I remember a time when, in order to call out sick and/or hungover at work, one had to haul his disease-addled bones out of bed and walk clear across the house to find the phone that was — you young fry will think I’m lying — attached to a wall. 

That poor fellow then had to dial seven numbers from memory just so he could have an awkward, out-loud conversation with another person before quivering and quaking his way back to his sick bed. 

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Nowadays? There are probably apps for your phone that will automatically call you in sick whenever it detects that your body temperature has risen to a specific threshold. And if there is no such app, someone should create one, because that sounds pretty great, doesn’t it? 

Not that I need such a thing, mind you. Whatever it was that befell me last week was a fluke. Do you hear me? A fluke! 

With God as my witness, I will never be sick again!

Mark LaFlamme is a medical marvel that takes the time out of his miraculous days in denial to be the crime reporter for the Sun Journal. He can be reached at mlaflamme@sunjournal.com.

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