If I End Up With an Artificial Voice Box, I Will Totally Sue

Posted on February 18, 2009
Filed Under Daily, The Boss | 10 Comments

The Boss and I are sick.
It’s a bummer.
And we’ve already run the dishwasher twice.

The Boss came down with some flu-like symptoms last week, and even though I tried to avoid breathing the same air as him, it was inevitable that I too would end up feeling like my face was about to explode sooner or later.
Apparently, it was sooner.

Last week, when The Boss started to get sick, we went to the store to pick up some cold meds.
He wanted to get a syrup (I know, so cute), so we browsed the aisle for a few minutes, and ended up going home with some fancy Tylenol that I saw on TV.

This morning, when I woke up, I could hardly walk, breathe or see.
I stumbled into the kitchen, hoping to pop some Zicam, and to my miserable surprise, we didn’t have any. I was feeling too drained to run to the store, and The Boss was sick in bed, so him volunteering didn’t look like Today’s Special.

Ater lots of consideration, I decided to give his Tylenol Cough & Severe Congestion with Honey Lemon Warming Liquid a try. (It was way too strong for what I needed, but the name was so long and precise, I figured, why not?)

I rinsed out the little plastic cup he’d been using, and filled it up to the top.
I threw it back quickly, vaguely remembering that all cough syrups make you cringe after you take them.

And then, my throat caught fire.

I couldn’t breathe, and I could feel the ”warming liquid” travel like hot molten lava down my spine, and into my brain simultaneously.
I started to have flashbacks of the commercial I had seen on TV, which convinced me to convince The Boss to buy it over all the other stuff. (Damn Media!)
This didn’t feel anything like drinking tea while being wrapped in a warm blanket, like the commercial made me believe. It felt like I was being gutted with a hook, covered in acid, by that whack job in “Scream II.”

The Boss was upstairs, and if I yelled for help he might have heard me, but I couldn’t talk.
I held my throat like I was choking (mostly for effect) but also to make sure that part of my body was still intact.

I’ve gotten over the trauma from this morning, though I’m sure if I had an MRI done, it’d show I had third-degree burns down my trachea. But I’m not feeling any better than I was this morning — in fact, I kind of feel worse.
I’m even more tired than I was when I woke up, I’m sitting in a pile of my own dirty tissues, and even after I brushed my teeth, the hair-raising taste, courtesy of the cough syrup, is still lingering on my taste buds.

Later in the afternoon, I told The Boss I took his medicine, and that I nearly died.
He laughed.

“Yeah, I told you it burns,” he said. “It burns your cold out.”

I probably would have been better off making myself a hot toddy.
I don’t drink, but hell, I could just substitute the Brandy for a shot of Tylenol Burn-Your-Neck-Off Cough & Cold Syrup.

I’m sure they could both erode my liver equally as well.

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