During my freshman year of high school basketball, there was a time when my right knee cap had gotten so loose from intense daily practices that I could slide it out of its place in any direction, or even pull it slightly away from my leg. Needless to say, it caused a good deal of pain every day, especially while playing. No one knew though. Not the nurse, nor the trainer, not the doctor, nor my parents. “It’ll heal,” I told myself. And it did.

In the fourteen years since, I’ve continued that attitude through every chest cold, sinus infection, flu battle, and injury.

So when I woke up Friday, July 24th with sore lungs, weak muscles, fatigue, and no appetite, it wasn’t a big deal to me, aside from having to miss a day of work. I even wobbled my way to the Million Peoples’ March on Saturday, before becoming miserably exhausted after a few hours in the 90 degree sun. With rest and freshed squeezed fruit juice I’d be fine by Monday, I thought.

But I wasn’t. Not even close.

I grew progressively worse until Tuesday night, where I’d lost at least eight pounds, could hardly leave the bed, ran a fever of 101.8, and had no desire to eat anything. The body pains forced me to lay in an upright fetal position. It was time to make my shameful walk to the doctor, who said I had bronchitis or pneumonia and gave me an antibiotic to fight it. A second doctor would have to give me a better-suited antibiotic on Saturday night for me to really improve.

I’m far from a fan of man-made antibiotics, but I can’t say they didn’t work. Long story short, I was back at the job by Friday, and my last fever was Saturday evening. By Sunday I got out of the bed for good and ate my first meal, and on Monday night I was able to run a few miles.

So that’s where I’ve been. Losing fifteen pounds during the most boring and uncomfortable ten days of my life – likely brought on, in part, by an overpacked schedule, lack of sleep, and resultant stress. I’ll try to work on that.