A note of apology: To my loyal readers who missed Inside Out last week, I am sorry. Doctor visits and hospitalizations for seasonal flu hit a 15-year-high in the U.S. last month, and yours truly was one of the victims. What follows is an account of where I’ve been. 

It starts with a faint tickle at the back of the throat.

Within hours, the tickle has turned itself into a scratch, the skin around your mouth is suddenly screaming for moisturizer, and you’re exhausted. 

It’s just that dry winter air, you tell yourself. You just need to hydrate more. Go to bed early tonight. You’ll be fine. 

They call this stage denial. 

Your fever skyrockets. You writhe in your sweat-soaked bed sheets, calling out nonsense words in your delirium. Muscles you didn’t know you had are on fire. 

Your mind races to figure out who did this to you. 

Then you remember her. 

The coughing stranger walked in the door, announcing loudly (and repeatedly) that she didn’t feel well. She wasn’t wearing a mask and wasn’t covering her mouth when she coughed. 

She cast her eyes around a lobby that was almost completely empty and decided to sit down next to the one and only person in the room — you. 

You were trapped in that room until your name was called. Now you’re trapped in bed, unable to stay vertical for much longer than a trip to the bathroom. 

Still, you imagine uncovering this stranger’s whereabouts and knocking on her front door. You picture yourself punching her in the nose (something you would never actually do in real life, mind) and giving her a piece of your mind. 

Ah, yes, you’ve officially reached the anger stage. 

Your spouse tells you he’s worried. You’ve hardly been able to stay awake in the last 36 hours, and each time your fever spikes, you become delirious, yelling out in pain. It’s time to go to urgent care, he says. 

You Google your symptoms and realize if you’d gone to urgent care earlier you would have been within the window for treatment with Tamiflu. 

If only you’d agreed to do this when he’d asked 24 hours earlier, you tell yourself. 

What if that first day doesn’t count, your mind counters, what if you’re just close enough for help? 

This is what they call the bargaining phase. 

They run a small Q-tip around your nostrils at urgent care. They tell you to keep doing all the things you’re already doing — over-the counter fever reducers, constant fluids, running a humidifier, rest — and add your asthma inhaler more frequently. 

The test comes back positive. You have influenza A, better known as “the flu.”

You’re sick, really sick, and there’s no way out but through. 

You did everything right! You got your flu shot. You do every year! You wash your hands with soap and water and use hand sanitizer.  

You think about the mountains of work piling up all around you while you’re stuck in this sea of tissues and blister packs emptied of the pills they’re made to protect. You realize you’ve got angry clients waiting on photos from you. You start counting the hours left until your daughter will be home for spring break, and suddenly you’re sobbing. 

You’ve reached the depression stage. 

The sobbing makes your throbbing forehead feel even heavier, clogs your already stuffed nose. You can’t go there, you realize. You have to pull yourself together. 

You’ve been relatively lucky, you reason. Your lungs have been surprisingly clear this time — something you don’t always get to say when you face a respiratory illness. Your boss and co-workers have been fantastic about your time away. Your clients have been far more understanding than you expected. You will get through this. 

That, right there? That’s what they call acceptance.