Slow-motion Nightmares

Just as I predicted it would, it happened. Even more frightening and worse-played out than I imagined, it happened.

I fell ill in Paris. It sounds minor, but doesn't it always? The process rolls out slowly, and it seems to be never ending until, finally, it is over.

I'll rewind.

Sunday- 20:00. The dreaded sore-throat that plagued my day persists and worsens. What I had blamed on an exhuasting weekend is now seeming to be more than that. I drag my feet and retreat to bed, unaware of what the night and morning is waiting to show me.

Monday- 4:00. Sore throat wakes me after a few hours of tossing. I stumble to the bathroom and throw back a couple of ibuprofen before falling back into twisted sheets.

9:00. I feel it. The eye-rollingly familar streptococcal pharyngitis, or strep as we've been known to call it, is sitting in the back of my throat. There's no question about it. I somehow, in my barely-awake state-of-mind, decide to find a doctor's number after a few more hours of sleep. I've done this dance before, and I've been dreading it's occurrence since months before my European arrival. I think to myself, "all I'll need is a dose of some amoxicillin, and stat." Return to sleep.

11:00. For the second time today, I stumble to the bathroom with a sickening light-headedness and swirling confusion. Halfway through my gentle tooth-brushing, punctuated with aches and gags, I throw the plastic tools back on my shelf and run to the W.C., ready to rid my intestines of whatever's left from the evening. Before I can even relieve my waves of nausea, I'm suddenly thrown against the door by my own body. First faint of the morning: check.

11:02. Frightened and shaken, confused and upset, I, once again, stumble to my apartment's living room to check for human interaction. I see my roommates, mumble something about feeling extremely sick, and they urge me to return to bed, unaware of what to do or how utterly confused I am. Within seconds, the situation takes another left turn.

11:02:30. I'm on the floor, again. Shrieks of concern, I hear from the living room, followed by my own voice meekly saying, "No...not OK..." My three roommates are suddenly standing above me, in an equal, yet different, state of shock as I am. We somehow discuss what just happened and I eventually am back in my bedroom, a glass of water by my side and my cell phone by my ear.

11:10. Once the situation has been explained to the proper CEA staff member and several phone calls have been made, a doctor is expected at my apartment in the next 4 hours. I retreat back to a distant sleep and wake up intermittently in confused, anxious tears, simply wanting someone to take care of me. Never did Philadelphia feel so far away.

13:11. A doctor calls me, speaking in speedy and garbled French that I can barely pick up. I try to explain to him that I can't understand him; he both gives and hangs up. With no caller ID to call back, I continue to wait.

14:26. Another phone call. This time, English communication is made. I go down to bring this man into my home.

14:30. After coat removal and hand-washing, the typical doctor's routine commences, but this time with a bit of French aggression. One look at my throat, and "Infection! You need antibiotic!" is cried out. I don't even question a lack of throat culture, as I'm just as confident in the diagnosis myself.

14:40. Four prescription write-up's, and a thorough explanation of what each medication does, later. I collapse, this time willingly and consciously, into the couch. A pharmacy adventure awaits, and the sooner the better. I need drugs.

15:03. I make my way to the nearest pulsing, green plus sign. I push the papers given to me earlier that afternoon towards the man working, and he continues to retrieve each packet of pills. While I watch him work, my mind dizzies again and the sound starts to drain from my ears. Here it comes...I find a chair just after retrieving my debit card from the counter, mumbling, "I need to sit down." The pharmacist reaches across and hands my bag of pills over, while I take deep breaths, holding my head in my hands, once again confused and frightened.

After 72 hours of 3/day horse-sized pills and hours upon hours of sleep, my healthy self seems to be on her way back. Continuing to wonder, "why me?" while hoping for it never to happen again, I now return to my Parisian life with an even larger, and more warranted, fear of fainting in the Metro.

Disclaimer: dramatization has been applied. Things always seem worse in the moment, oui?