Yesterday, I went to see my doctor because of my lingering illness, which began over ten days ago in Arizona, and for some part of our appointment, she seemed to be under the impression that I had viral meningitis. Given additional data, the diagnosis became murkier, but it seems I was spared a spinal tap by virtue of only a few anomalous symptoms. Later in the evening, I described my condition to a medical student who sat at my table at Faustus's cabaret show, and he (the medical student, not Faustus, who was too busy singing) seemed equally concerned about meningitis, although he gleefully described many of the other possibilities (none of which, I am sure, would leave me functional enough to attend a cabaret, but there have been days in the past week where just raising my head off the pillow was a torture).

What is it about meningitis, anyway? When I visited New Zealand a few years ago and came back with a severe case of that year's Auckland Flu, I was also initially diagnosed with meningitis.

Picture it: Christchurch, New Zealand, August 1999. I got very sick and had to go to the emergency room, twice, when I got back to Baltimore.

A riveting tale, no?

To me, the funniest thing about all of this is how quickly my convictions about Western medicine fly out the window given the impetus of enough pain. Normally, to avoid "polluting my system," I will not take so much as an aspirin; it drives Rob crazy that I will not even keep it in the apartment. But in the past several days I have downed an entire bottle of Advil, a half bottle of Percocet, and three bottles of cough medicine (one of them containing not a little codeine).

At least it gives me something to write about.