Where to begin?

Saturday my day began at 4:54.  A.M.  After waking up every 10-30 minutes hacking up one of my lungs or at least the contents thereof. 

I was not in a good mood.

But we were flying to Chicago and then driving 4 hours to check out Indy's new institute of higher education and attempt to find ourselves a place to live, so I tried to be optimistic.  I immediately stubbed my still black and blue toe on something lurking strategically next to my side of the bed.  I cursed silently, but I had an urgent need to pee so I kept limping to the bathroom.  It's a good thing my body/bladder wouldn't let me sleep any longer because I was functioning at such an extremely slow level that it took me the whole hour to be dressed and have it together.  At which point I knew I needed to try eating something so that I could get more pills down myself.  Somewhere in between walking into the kitchen and opening the door of the fridge, I realized my stomach was not entirely settled.  Great.  So I put one slice of good old white bread into the toaster.  Then I ran for the bathroom.  Fortunately it was only dry heaves, so I came back out and forced myself to eat a few bites of dry toast and drink a few sips of strawberry-banana smoothie juice stuff.  I had to test the waters, or stomach acids as the case may be.  Still I knew it wasn't a good idea to try swallowing a bunch of pills so I lounged in the back of the car with a "just in case" bowl the entire ride to the airport. 

At the airport is kind of blurry - I think that's when my fever really got going.  I do remember telling husband that I felt like Gwyneth Paltrow on Contagion.  By the time I walked/hobbled onto the plane, the stewardess flight attendant that's always there at the entrance took a look at me and said,
"Are you feelin' alright?"
Me: "Yeah, I'm just kinda sick."
FA: "With WHAT?  Do you have the flu?  Cuz this is a 3 hour flight so tell me now if you need medical attention.  Should we get you some medical attention?"

We finally agreed that I could just wear a mask so as to hopefully not infect other passengers.  At this point I think I was shaking/shivering uncontrollably.  I made Indy hold the drink he had got me because I was pretty sure I was going to drop it.  I opened the puke bag for the first time ever.  That happened when the plane kept jerking and dropping not 30 seconds after we took off.  I've never felt any fear of flying until this point.  I spent the rest of the flight trying to find the right thing to pray for; I went through a smooth flight, my fever subsiding, being able to sleep, the flight going faster, and finally endurance because apparently that's what I needed.  Except that at one point the pressure started getting terrible and I couldn't get my ears to pop.  It kept getting worse and worse until I couldn't really hear anything and by then it hurt so badly I started crying.  I had to clutch my fists to keep from sobbing.  If I had thought screaming like the kid a few rows up would have helped, I might have tried it. 

Skip forward to where my wonderful husband (who says I was somewhat delirious by the time we landed) made me sit with the luggage while he went to find the car and then wait in the car whilst he went into Target to buy ibuprofen, cough drops, and a new box of tissue.  He also bought a chocolate protein drink in an effort to get some fluid/calories into me.  He then drove the entire 4+ hours with me passed out, drooling and probably snoring.  I finally moved to the back seat to lay down.  At least I'd had enough awareness in the morning to grab my own pillow before we left. 

We finally got settled into our hotel room (the first had a broken AC, so we had to switch) and realized we needed more from Target.  So off we set again and I thought I was feeling better, so I went with.  We had just picked up our few items, including water and a snack for the evening when I had, in the infamous words of my little cousin, a "poo-poo toot."  A "poo-poo toot" is exactly what it sounds like and so I shuffled as quickly as I could in my own shame toward the bathroom, hoping that no incriminating stain was spreading across my thin khaki capris.  After ridding myself of as much evidence as possible (I didn't have to call Indy to make him buy me new shorts and bring them to the bathroom, yay!), I was done.  I didn't want to be conscious for another minute of the day.  Husband had guessed this and was hurriedly checking out with our few items so that I could waddle out self-consciously toward the car.

So I guess the upside is I never did puke.  But I did poop my pants.  Which do you prefer?