Growing up I always referred to a cold as ‘the flu’ knowing fully well that with it came far more pity and flat lemonade to soothe my ailing self. A cold seemed to be something that you could just work through. A cough here, a sniffle there. As long as you kept your bodily fluids to yourself people expected you to carry on as normal. The flu however involved sweating, soup and sympathy. Something that is far more desirable not only to a 10 year old trying to get out of the swimming carnival, where the only event they would compete in was the compulsory 25 metre doggy paddle, but to many an adult alike. Many an occasion in my working life have I called in sick, upgrading my cold to the flu simply to avoid the interrogation that comes when they think you’re faking it. Now I am not condoning calling in with a fake sickness, just simply to elevate your simple sickness to one that sounds far more worthy of a day in bed.
This being said, I, in my 25 years of life, have somehow managed to avoid the actual body aching, head exploding, elderly killing flu. So proud I was of this fact that I had considered making a t-shirt exclaiming this achievement, like some kind of demented expression of my resilience, reminiscent of a particular species of baboon that proudly displays a red splendour on it’s chest to suggest, to potential mates, his virility. Whether or not this would work for me was never determined as my t-shirt plans were recently dispelled by my first ever experience of The Flu.
It came quick, swiftly knocking me down while I was still convincing myself that I had just a cold. My head, thick and slow, shot pain behind my eyes and down my spine. Complete stillness brought no relief as bright lights filled my vision and tested my constitution. Chills plagued my body as I lay in trackies, a jumper and ugg boots, in front of the heater wrapped in a blanket, while thirst tormented me, as my stomach rejected water.
Nine days passed in a blur of tissues, vomit, self-pity and stacks of weekly DVD’s collected diligently by my housemate. After shlumping through the haze and beginning to come out the other side, drastically weakened, but well informed about the early years of Baywatch, my thoughts returned to assignments. Though The Flu had stopped my life for 9 days, it had unfortunately left uni life to continue on without me. A glance at my colour-coded timetables immediately informed me to the fact that I had 3 assignments due anon, each demanding my attention and intelligent thought immediately. I staggered at the idea of catching up, a seemingly impossible task that time would simply not permit me to complete. Falling behind was always a fear of mine, one extension granted would simply cut into the time I had allocated for the next assignment, pushing each one back until I found myself collecting shopping trolleys for a living.
I re-scheduled, I planned, I drew up even more colour coded tables hoping that their organisation would magically create more time. Each table spoke worse than the last, their conclusions all the same. I would have to put aside my fear and ask for a couple of extensions. As I typed the emails, instead of increasing my anxiety and causing me to research Ockey Straps and the Idiot’s Guide to Trolley Steering, I found myself relaxing, smiling oddly at my computer, whilst whistling nasally to myself, bringing on a post flu coughing fit. Once my extensions were granted and plausible timetables for their completion were drawn up I realised that perhaps extensions weren’t as scary as I had made them out to be. Just like Return to Oz, which I had rented out during The Flu, a movie that tormented and disturbed me as a child. Scenes of Wheelers and Queen Mombi with the 30 heads had spent 20 years polluting my mind and tainting my soul all because I had thought it was going to be just like the Wizard of Oz, with it’s dancing munchkins and shiny brick road, each turn celebrated with a catchy tune. How wrong I was. After so long of allowing Return to Oz to be placed in my mind along side horror flicks and deranged art works, I decided to give it a chance, after all I was a fully grown adult now. The first 20 minutes filled me with dread as each twist and turn in the plot brought back strong memories of fear, like certain smells or sounds can do. But as it progressed, although it was far darker than the original Wizard, it wasn’t as scary as my 5-year-old brain had thought it was. The experience that I had thought would be painful ended up being…well enjoyable. So although I may not find my assignments, complete with extensions, enjoyable, I no longer fear that falling a little behind and asking for help will necessarily end up with me asking “Do you want fries with that?”
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