Man Flu - A Blow By Blow Account From Behind The Tissues (Based On A True Story)

Often ridiculed by women, truly understood by men, the man flu is a savage illness with a weak name.
More appropriate would be: "the week of a million deaths"

Day 1.

It starts as it always does. It's bedtime. Slight pain in the back of the sinuses, tickle in the throat, Hurts to swallow. Oh god no. Not now. I have to fly out of town for a work trip tomorrow. I eat a box of vitamin C and get some cold pills. Futile, pathetic little cold pills. They don't stand a chance. Sleep, take me now!

Day 2.
Sleep came and went many times but never stayed. The airport coffee is tasteless and my head is full of cotton wool. My entire body aches and both of my arms have fallen off on account of the severe pain. I'm dressed in a suit, but there is a hollow corpse inside. My appetite is gone. I have told at least two people to fuck off and I'm not even at the gate. The babies can sense it, and they scream for the entire flight for fear of their shitty demanding little lives. I wish I could too.

The rest of the day passes relatively uneventfully. I tell someone else to go fuck themselves, and get on with my grumpy, excruciating, severely impaired day. The work evening is boring and full of the worst type of middle class, self absorbed shitheaps I've seen thus far, congratulating each other on such fine choices of clothing and generally being obnoxious, condescending, entitled, over privileged cunts.

I retire to my room and wonder if the cold pills are placebo. I've been drinking, but only a few beers whiskeys and wines, and I'm still in pain. The only way I can sleep is to flush my nostrils with nasal spray so I can close my mouth, my throat dries out otherwise and causes the kind of cough that perforates lungs.

Day 3.
I wish I was hungover. But no, this is much worse. The peak is still looming in the distance, and I know it. Misery, fear, and loathing are my friends. Pain is at my side as I sleep, waiting patienly as it turns up the intensity.
This is the day of my presentation. I must perform for real tonight. Last night was just a warm up, no one really cared. But tonight the wolves will be watching, and they don't care about sickness, they want their results.
The seconds drag by. I keep a supply of tissues, water, and lozenges at hand at all times. I hate everybody that doesn't look miserable. I look like a crack head with no soul. Maintain composure. The thin veneer of giving any fucks whatsoever is basically see through, but I somehow nail the presentation with skill and confidence, and the help of mulled wine in a coffee cup. More pain.

Day 4.
True horror and pain. The peak, in all its nasty glory. I fly home today. With the very last threads of my voice I tell some other people at the airport to fuck off, this time with enough conviction to unleash terror in their eyes. I considered beating them to death with a luggage trolley, but im tired, and it would probably delay my flight. I have to sip water every few seconds to keep from coughing. Other human beings are an affront, something to avoid.
I haven't eaten properly since the beginning. I realise I can eat biscuits if they are dipped in tea as they don't hurt much to swallow. They only give me one biscuit.
The plane doesn't burst into flames, explode, or crash, and I am pissed off.
My ride is late, but I am so happy to know I can now be miserable in the comforts of home. I will take as long as I need to recover, but the looming sunset approaches.
If you think you feel bad during the day, the night will crush you and take your dignity with it. Sleep does not come. 4 days of cold pills, barely any food, and precious little sleep have culminated in this, the peak.
I have to swallow to prevent the cough, the kind of cough that rips you apart from the neck down.
Everytime I swallow I want to cry due to the pain it causes my throat. My mouth is over producing saliva so I have to swallow every few seconds. My throat is cardboard and sandpaper. There is no safe option. This lasts for at least as long as it takes to drive a sound man insane.
I consider going to the hospital for a diagnosis, maybe this is something else, maybe I'm dying. I struggle on.

Day 5
I get to stay home and be miserable, fantastic. If only I could eat. I can ingest honey, tea, and biscuits dunked to breaking point. I can't speak more than a few words every hour. I only get up to use the bathroom, and by the time I lay back down I'm exhausted. The day passes like so, and at night I find a way to sleep through mental trickery. I have stopped taking pain pills because they don't have any effect anymore.

Day 6
When you think it's over, prepare for more. I'll be fine to go to work today. No you won't. But you will go, and you will feel moderately average, until you realise the folly of your mistake, but it will be too late to back out.
You won't be able to talk for more than a few seconds without triggering the cough. The inside of your throat at this point looks like a bad horror movie. You look outwardly human, but misery has consumed your soul and you have no empathy, no emotion. Sleep will evade you again. You hope for a catastrophe of some kind so everyone else is as afflicted as you. You pass the night writing a story of self pity on your iPhone.

Day 7.
The worst is over, but the mental scars will never heal. The week of a million deaths has chewed you up and spat you out and you will never be the same. Sexual reassignment surgery doesn't seem like a drastic measure to make sure you never get man flu again. Somewhere, a bunny dies, and you smile, knowing that a child is crying bitter tears of loss. The darkness slowly gives way to light and your soul returns.