Good grief, gentlemen. This illness kicked my ass!

You know that scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail where they're collecting the bodies, and one poor fellow keeps protesting, "I'm not dead yet!"?

Well, that was pretty much me this week. Except I wasn't being carried through a medieval village. I was sprawled across a bed in Mexico, wondering whether I should call a doctor or just start picking out a tasteful urn.

Let me tell you how this little adventure unfolded.

Monday: What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

Last Monday, I stopped at CVS and decided to get my flu shot and my COVID shot on the same day.

Now, before you start lecturing me, I KNOW.

I know my body. I know how it reacts. And I have a long history of feeling absolutely miserable whenever I get two vaccinations on the same day.

So naturally, I did it again.

Apparently, at 62, I still believe that if I keep doing the same stupid thing, eventually I'll get a different result.

I figured, "Oh, it'll be fine this time."

Famous last words.

Tuesday: The Warning Signs

Tuesday morning, my arm was a little sore. Nothing dramatic. Just the usual reminder that someone had recently stuck a needle in me.

By Tuesday evening, however, I started feeling a little sniffly.

And I remember thinking, "Oh boy. Here it comes..."

I knew that feeling. That little tickle in the nose. That vague sense that something unpleasant was gathering its forces.

But I had a plane to catch the next morning, so I brushed it off.

After all, what could possibly be better for a body trying to fight off something than a full day of air travel?

Wednesday: Welcome to Mexico. Now Collapse.

Wednesday morning, I flew down to Mexico.

And I felt awful.

I was lightheaded pretty much the entire trip. Not the pleasant, two-margaritas-on-the-beach kind of lightheaded. More the "Am I actually standing, or is the airport moving around me?" variety.

By the time I was dropped off at my house in San Miguel de Allende, I was functioning mostly on autopilot.

I made it to my bedroom, answered a couple of emails because apparently even near-death experiences don't excuse me from checking my inbox, and collapsed onto the bed.

That was it.

The curtain had fallen.

The fat lady was warming up.

And somewhere in the distance, I could almost hear somebody shouting, "Bring out your dead!"

Thursday: ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE

Gentlemen, Thursday morning was when the wheels came completely off the wagon.

I woke up, and my throat was ON FIRE.

Swallowing? Forget it.

My eyes were so swollen they were practically shut. My voice had completely disappeared. And every muscle in my body felt as though I'd spent the previous evening being beaten with a sack of golf balls.

Actually, forget being beaten with golf balls.

It felt like I'd been sleeping ON a bag of golf balls all night.

I couldn't get comfortable. I couldn't talk. I could barely swallow. I was miserable.

Now, as most of you know, I'm not exactly a man who runs screaming from the medicine cabinet.

So I started rummaging through the house for relief. Amoxicillin, ibuprofen, topical treatments, whatever I thought might help. I was mixing flavored water just to make swallowing bearable.

And before anyone takes that as medical advice, please don't follow my example. Taking leftover antibiotics without knowing what's causing an illness isn't a smart move. Looking back, I should have gotten medical guidance rather than playing pharmacist in my bathrobe.

But at the time, I was desperate to feel human again.

The rest of Thursday was an endless cycle.

Bathroom. Bed. Water. Bathroom. Bed.

Boiling hot.

Freezing cold.

Throw off the covers.

Pull the covers back up.

Repeat approximately 9,000 times.

I was getting up every 30 minutes, and every trip to the bathroom felt like an expedition to Mount Everest.

At one point, I was fairly certain I was dying.

Not necessarily in a dramatic, tragic, surrounded-by-loved-ones sort of way.

More of a "Well, this is an awfully embarrassing way to go" sort of way.

If I had to put a number on it, I'd say my body was operating at approximately 11% capacity.

And I think 11% was generous.

Thursday Evening: Lights Out!

Around 6 p.m., I'd finally had enough.

I took a couple of Advil PMs, crawled back into bed, and essentially checked out of the land of the living.

No emails.

No television.

No conversations.

No witty observations.

Just me, my pillows, and the sweet promise of unconsciousness.

And somehow, I slept straight through until Friday morning.

Friday: A Resurrection of Sorts

I opened my eyes around 7 a.m. Friday and cautiously attempted to swallow.

Wait a minute.

That didn't hurt nearly as much!

I tried again.

Still uncomfortable, but nothing like the previous day.

My voice was still completely missing in action, but my body felt dramatically better.

I'd gone from 11% to approximately 65% overnight!

Gentlemen, that wasn't recovery.

That was a resurrection!

I even noticed that my bed had apparently transformed itself. Instead of sleeping on golf balls, it felt like I was back on an actual mattress.

What luxury!

I wasn't ready to run a marathon, host a dinner party, or perform a Broadway number, but I was beginning to resemble a living person again.

And after Thursday, that was more than enough for me.

Saturday Morning: Reports of My Death Have Been Greatly Exaggerated

And that brings us to this morning.

It's Saturday.

I'm sitting here dictating this article because, while my voice has returned, it sounds like a cross between Barry White, a bullfrog, and a man who has smoked three packs of cigarettes a day since 1947.

Honestly, it's kind of sexy.

Swallowing is no longer an issue. The golf balls have vacated my mattress. My eyes are open, and I can walk from one end of the house to the other without wondering whether I should leave a trail of breadcrumbs.

I'd put myself at about 82% capacity today.

Not bad, considering I was practically shopping for a coffin 48 hours ago.

I'm hoping another good night's sleep will bring me the rest of the way back.

And before anyone asks, no, I don't know for certain whether this was a reaction to the vaccines, a respiratory infection, or some unfortunate combination of circumstances. The timing certainly made me suspicious, but the severity of it means I shouldn't simply assume it was the shots. I strongly believe in vaccines, but I do believe that for whatever reason, my body does not like getting two shots on the same day.

The Moral of the Story?

Well, first, I probably ought to stop convincing myself that my body is suddenly going to react differently to something it's reacted poorly to in the past.

Second, I need to remember that I'm 62, not 22. Apparently, my body has opinions, and it's not shy about expressing them.

And third, there is absolutely nothing glamorous about being sick, especially when you're alone in a house, dressed in yesterday's sweats, and making noises that would frighten small children.

But the good news is that I'm on the mend.

The voice is coming back. The energy is returning. And my sense of humor, which apparently survived the entire ordeal, remains completely intact.

So to anyone who was wondering where I've been hiding this week, now you know.

I've been busy not dying.

Don't count me out, kids. I'm still here!

And to whoever's pushing that medieval corpse cart down the street?

Keep moving, sweetheart.

I'M NOT DEAD YET!

— Nick