I left my apartment this afternoon for the first time in fifty-two hours. My last outdoors experience was to get a haircut; all cleaned up and nowhere to go. The fever has since been broken, and although I feel better I wouldn’t describe myself as being better.

Truer words have never been spoken. I did not draw the flower.

I’m writing this in the laundromat which means two things: I can walk further than the distance from my bed to the couch, and I’m washing the feverish sweat that has contaminated all of my bedding and more of my clothes than I care to admit. It’s nice to be able to clean myself and what I own again, I forgot what that was like.

Although it might seem small, I chalk that up in the ‘W’ category, and I consider myself the winner of this bout, or I should say I’m winning. Over the course of this battle I’ve come to understand that I know less about my body than I thought – and if this is true what don’t I know about women? I can’t remember my body rebelling against me with a roller coaster triumvirate of fever, sweat, and chills. It was unpleasant, but not entirely desperate or alone.

My sister and brother-in-law brought me a survival kit of the absolute necessities: orange juice and chicken noodle soup. They even brought me a personal feel good favorite that only family, close friends, and co-workers would know about: baked beans. They didn’t hugged me and they might have even covered their mouths when they were forced to be within four feet of me, but it’s the thought that counts.

I'm not wearing pants here.

My roommates came to my rescue as well. Pat bought me a Dad’s Old Fashioned Root Beer that might have saved my life. Eric shared a bag of chips with me at his own peril. And our newest room-mate, Steve – who had the misfortune of moving in yesterday – didn’t judge me too harshly, even though I elected to not wear pants yesterday in favor of a blanket-dress hybrid garment. Steve also gave me a slice of pizza.

It was a rough couple of days and although no one was there to rub my back; baked beans, root beer, and potato chips are a close second in my book. Keep in mind I’ve only been living with Pat and Eric for a little over a month, so a back rub might have been asking too much.

No man is an island.