Black Crickets, Purple Death

Liz's sister Jane came over to our apartment bring Liz some soup the other day. I told her she might not want to come in, unless she wants the Plague.

Jane said, "I don't mind a bunch of crickets." I gave her a blank stare. She gave me a quizzical eyebrow raise.

Turns out, we were both thinking of different plagues.

Jane was talking about the Biblical plagues. Y'know, the plagues featured in The Ten Commandments and The Mummy (and I guess the Bible... in the book of...Judges? Chronicles II?)

I was thinking about the Black Death. The plague that wiped out half of Europe. The plague that would also go on to ravage North Africa and, if Wikipedia is to be believed, was an inspiration for the song Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down. Ok, I made up that last part about the ashes song. It's not on wikipedia, but I swear I've heard it somewhere. Pause while I go edit the post it on Wikipedia.

(Edited the wiki post. So credible, that Wikipedia)

Back to the task at hand. Why was I thinking about the Black Plague? Because for the last three weeks, Lizzie and I have had it. Well, maybe not the Black Plague exactly; I suppose we were visited by its less sinister cousin, once removed. The Purple Plague. Or the Pastel Plague. Not quite black, but nevertheless unwanted. 

The sickness started with me. For three days, I thought I had strep. Symptoms included: daggers and barbed wire sore throat, body ache, fever. I went to the doctor. After keeping me in the waiting room on the butcher paper for, I'm not making this up, an hour and a half, he told me he didn't think I had strep. But he'd run a test and tell me in two days. I gave him the "in two days I'll be dead" look, but he just shrugged it off and went back to doing whatever it is doctors do to make their patients wait for hours on end (he's probably editing wikipedia pages).

Two days later came, and I wasn't dead. Jokes on me, I guess. But the doctor's office did notify me that I did not have strep. I somehow knew this already, because at 3:02  that morning the Purple  Plague mutated into pnemonia, or bronchitis, or whatever it is you call a violent, nuclear cough, lungs turning into a swimming pool of fluid, head stuffed like a pimento-fused green olive, and a general fatigue so fatiguing I felt like I'd turn into a camoflauged army uniform (which, to those who might not get the joke, is also a fatigue. Dah. Now I just ruined it. Not funny if you have to explain).

So no, studying for finals was not fun in this aforementioned condition. But what made it even less fun? Lizzie soon contracted the sickness. Two Heywood's down, none to go. Plague-1. Wymount Apt #731-0.

Lizzie missed three days of work and two days of Relief Society. She's still not feeling 100%. If asked, she'd probably say that she's at 65%. (In fact, I asked her today and she said, "I'm at about 65%).

Although this sickness is The Worst Christmas Ever, I do have things to be grateful for.