School makes me sick . . .

 . . . literally.

I am writing this in bed, under the dim light of the screen, table lamp, and sunken basement window.  My sister brought me soup an hour ago, rousing me from my long afternoon nap.

My first clue came yesterday afternoon, when no matter how much water I drank, I couldn't seem to get the back of my throat to stop aching.  I gulped water en route to the middle school.  Once there, I made frequent visits to the tissue box.  At the art show/band concert last night, I began wondering if my glands were swollen, and I returned home late with a headache.  I blamed caffeine, but I proceeded to have difficulty concentrating as I tried to read through important documents about my Fulbright visa application.  10:30 felt like 3 AM and I went to sleep and had what can only be a stress or fever dream.

(And because everybody loves to hear about my dreams . . .)

I dreamed that I had been invited to play piano for the high school jazz band at a competition (a similar instance had happened at yesterday's jazz concert with an old alum coming in to play for an ill student).  I was to play the right hand and another female would play the left because neither of us were very accomplished pianists.  I practiced some then watched the main stage with some fellow musicians.  Afterwards I went for a walk, finding myself in Minneapolis--but a very different Minneapolis, more European with piazzas and less traffic.  I walked around and as I walked into a coffee shop I literally ran into an attractive man.  It was the third time I had literally run into him, so he asked me to have coffee with him.  I consented, but then realized I needed to get back to the concert.  I pulled out my business cards from my purse and they flew everywhere.  I then realized someone had switched my business cards with another as a prank.  (Ironically, today I found out I have the wrong phone number on my card.) 

Then there proceeded to be the series of events that occurs in many stress dreams--difficulty walking back to the convention center with cars blocking the roads and my feet slowing me down.  No matter what I tried I couldn't get back.  Then there proceeded to be the oppression of anticipated disappointment.

As my alarm went off this morning, I thought it to be phone calls berating my irresponsibility.  My sister finally aided in my wakening, asking if I wanted to go for a run or not.  I went to school and proceeded through the day, with frequent use of tissues and frequent hand-washing.  By the time I set out for the middle school, I could feel my weakness, bracing myself on my desk and having to think extra hard.  My brain could hardly function in a room of active 7th graders, and I made more frequent reminders about volume levels--moreso because of my inability to concentrate than because of their unusual energy.

Through it all, I did what every teacher must do--I went on as if nothing were wrong and continued teaching.  I expelled most of my energy by 3:30, uttering a pitifully weak farewell to a passing staff member.  On the way home I stopped in Walmart for a decongestant, kneeling before the shelves, overwhelmed by the options, hunting out some pseudophedrine, but settling for, oh, I don't know what, but I'm on it. 

I cancelled my evening plans and have been plopped in this bed so long that I fear pressure sores (an unrealistic fear I know).  I'm considering venturing up the stairs.  I also know that illness or no, I'll be at school tomorrow, and I ought to do some grading tonight.