Sunday morning, my husband woke me up and said I needed to see a doctor. I definitely did, but weakly protested. Thankfully, my husband ignored me. He could see how pale I was, and I hadn't eaten a full meal since lunch at the mall two days ago.
He had already inquired with the front desk about a nearby walk-in clinic. The walk there was brutal, and I sat on the side of the road no fewer than three times to catch my breath. We entered, and the nurse quickly assessed how dehydrated I was and injected me with a banana bag of fluids.
A doctor saw me shortly after and took some blood and measured some vitals. I barely remember any of this, to be honest. He then gave me a boatload of medication to take over the next five days. My final diagnosis was the flu.
It took me a full five days to feel even remotely back to normal. Luckily, there were no other complications, and I chalked it up to bad luck.
