This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2014, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.

It started the Friday before Christmas. In the middle of a funeral service for Dixie Salm, a backup mom for my siblings and me as we grew up, my skull's intercom crackled.

"Mrs. Henry, would you please send Bobby Kirby to the principal's office?"

Just as I considered that I needed to get that thing fixed, a second announcement advised me to ignore the first. This was followed by a third more alarming announcement.

"Attention, dummy. You're sick."

In that moment I realized that the aches, the irritability, and increasing listlessness I'd been feeling for the past 48 hours had formed an action committee and was now issuing regular barf warnings.

Mercifully, the funeral service was almost over. With a lot of sweat and hope, I was able to broker a temporary peace between warring factions of Sad Closure and Worse Disclosure. I got out as quickly as I could.

I feel bad for the people at the funeral I might have unwittingly infected. Had I known I was getting sick, I would have stayed home. But I thought I was just feeling old and run down from so much Christmas preparation.

Everyone who's ever been sick ­­­­— which is everyone — knows that moment of sudden realization, the moment when he or she stops blowing off the symptoms and starts blowing chunks.

Depending on the person, that moment of horrible understanding is greeted with "darn, drat, dang, damn, @%$#" or "YAAKKKK!"

Initially, I counted myself lucky. I was in my truck and eight blocks from the church before the first of what would be many unpleasant moments came up. Ugh.

The next four days were spent in a bilious haze, occasionally scrambling from bed to attend some violent need in either a bathroom or — a couple of times — a far more convenient backyard.

Otherwise I shivered, moaned and cursed my luck. Could there be a worse time to get the flu than Christmas?

NOTE: OK, my wedding day, the days my kids were born, the day I didn't get arrested for that one thing I helped Bammer do, the day I got home from the Army, the day I … never mind. You know what I mean.

We're talking Christmas. Instead of commemorating the birth of Jesus Christ by stuffing 15 pounds of candy canes into a cannon and shooting it down the street, I would have to stay in bed.

It was a stark reminder of the Christmas I had the mumps, when I spent most of the day in bed celebrating the greatest moment of the year with a bowl of #%$%@ soup while listening to "Alvin & The Chipmunks" until I was insane as well. There was no way I was going through that again.

But fortune smiled on me. I started feeling better Tuesday night. By Wednesday noon I emerged from the bedroom feeling shell-shocked and weak but on the mend.

That evening I was well enough to help my wife wrap gifts that I'd been too sick to shop for in order to give them to grandkids whose school programs I'd been too sick to attend.

I ate food I'd been too weak to purchase and prepare, while admiring decorations I'd been too ill to put up, all the while being cared for by an attractive woman who tended my every whiny need and encouraged me to stay in bed and watch TV.

You know, I just might have been looking at this whole being sick for Christmas thing backwards.

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