COBRA Bites Girl

The night I arrived in New York, I got sick. Not barfy sick, the way I might expect my cat to react upon arrival in a strange new place. No, it was this awful, creeping sickness, a slow onset of fever accompanied by slight chills, aches and near-fainting spells. (You know, just minor stuff like that.)

Early the next day, I had to meet the movers at my new apartment. It was mid-February and thus freezing cold—not the conditions in which you'd want to have to stand outside and wait for the movers. But I did, and when they finally arrived I wandered down the street to find everyone some bagels and hot chocolate—because it's important to me that the guys who lift and haul my heavy stuff actually like me. (It's an affliction, I know.)

For the next couple of hours, I sat in the apartment and checked off numbers on a clipboard that matched with the little yellow stickers all over my stuff. All the while, the door was open, of course, and even though my apartment possesses a hyperactive steam heater, that wasn't enough to keep me cozy. I sipped my chocolate, stayed bundled in my wool coat and scrunched my body into a little ball so as to conserve heat as I perched on a box with my clipboard. But there was no staving off The Disease.

By the time the movers left, it had taken over my body. And I was delirious.

So delirious that despite my sorry state, I decided that the only thing to do next was…unpack! One hundred boxes, give or take a couple (probably half filled with books, if you must know). And there was no time like the present to get those suckers emptied and moved out, damn it.

So here I was, in my wool coat, somewhat faint, scuffling around this obstacle course of an apartment, tearing tape off box tops and trying to envision where everything should go.

Probably two hours later, and maybe ten boxes unpacked, I realized, You know what? I feel like SHIT.

So I collapsed on my newly reassembled bed and proceeded to lie there in a pathetic little incapacitated heap.

For the next five days.

That's how long the fever lasted. Five days of 100 to 102. It broke a few times during that period, and every time I woke up in a sweat, I thought, Okay, this has got to be the end. But a couple of hours later I'd feel the chills coming on again, and no matter how much I shook my head in a frustrated little tantrum, The Disease just wouldn't let go.

That was Stage 1. Stage 2 was the hideous hacking cough, which followed immediately after and lasted for at least ten days more, perhaps longer. (Oh, and also—the complete loss of voice.) This was quite a persnickety cough. If I wanted it to leave me be, it demanded that I (a) sit still, and (b) not put my body through any drastic changes in temperature. Thus, any time I went outside, into the freezing cold, or returned inside, to the hyperactively steam-heated apartment, even if I hadn't exerted myself beyond walking a few short blocks, I would immediately start to cough. A lot. And loudly.

Everyone I crossed paths with on the outside turned away and accelerated as they passed, surely assuming I had TB or something. And once inside, the cat and the SLG reacted with similar horror, the SLG even noting early on that he hadn't seen anyone so sick since he had watched his uncle die…of cancer.

That was encouraging.

During this time, the few human beings I came in touch with, bless their hearts, took to playing armchair physician.

One friend suggested I might have mono.

Another said, "Oh, everyone at work has had that, too, it's a nasty bug going around."

My mother, dear woman, wondered whether my illness could be related to my relatively new tongue piercing.

And many, many people made this sensible point: "You should see a doctor."

There was just one problem: no health insurance.

I had left my previous job a few days before the end of January, and my insurance had expired Jan. 31. Yes, I got all the COBRA information, in the event that I wanted my health coverage to continue, but I remember looking at the handouts and thinking, Why do I need to sign up for this? $500 a month? What could possibly happen to me where making a preemptive-strike payment like that would be worth it?

Right. The Disease.

The cough held on midway through my first week on the new job, clearing up on the very same day that I had orientation for…benefits enrollment.

Oh, the Gods of Health, Wellness and High Insurance Premiums—they do have a sense of humor.