It was a warm, bright day when I walked into the Hazard-Appalachian Regional Hospital… It was a warm, bright day when I walked into the Hazard-Appalachian Regional Hospital emergency room in Hazard, Ky. I shivered under a ski jacket, a sweater, three T-shirts and two pairs of thick pants.

It was Wednesday. I had not showered since Saturday or combed my hair since Monday. I slept in my clothes, and they were wrinkled and damp with sweat. Fever flushed my face red and swelled my hands.

This emergency room culminated a week of being sick, the last three days of which I spent cowering in a sleeping bag. Most people prevent illnesses from progressing far enough to warrant hospital attention. Most people listen to their bodies. Most people allow themselves rest. Most people aren’t stupid and can admit when they need help.

I am not one of those people. This semester has made me frantic with responsibility. I study more than I should, apparently more than is healthy.

Obviously studying did not cause my illness; some opportunistic bronchial infection did. Still, the correlation between lacking sleep and a becoming sick exists.

Lack of sleep means a weakened immune system; a weakened immune system means illness comes early and often.

But there’s a catch. Most people viewing this problem would remedy it by sleeping more than they did. Conversely, I get sick, and my normal activities take longer than usual. Therefore, I address the problem by sleeping less than I normally do. And the cycle continues.

To compound the problem, I did not ask for help when I was ill. Instead, I shrugged and gave a dismissive hand gesture when people asked if I was OK. I piled on shirts and insisted that it was merely a cold, that I could force the fever out through sweat and sheer will.

At the ER, I presented with a 103-degree fever and a cough that had me doubled at the waist. I was shaking and could barely walk. The room spun. When the nurse read the number off the thermometer, something within me broke. I reached the point where my stubbornness endangered my health and possibly my life.

Even then, it took two hours to summon the courage to request painkillers. When I asked, a nurse insisted I sit down and brought me Tylenol and a cup of ice chips. I felt my lips. They were chapped and cracking. I fished out a piece of ice and ran it over them. A bit of blood oozed onto my finger.

Another nurse emerged and called my name. I shuffled after him. They needed blood samples. I mumbled something about low blood pressure. I checked my pulse. It felt heavy and dead, as if my body contained tomato paste and not blood.

They led me to a curtained-off area I shared with a couple, who looked younger than me, with their baby. There was a bed. I collapsed on it and fell asleep. A doctor woke me, listened to my breathing and viewed my throat. A nurse came with the doctor and took my temperature again. It fell to 101, then to 100. My face cooled and hands deflated. I could feel the fever draining.

I wanted to write about how this experience forced me to appreciate small things: ice, beds and simple acts of kindness. Instead, I write as a caution, to warn others not to be as stupid as I was. Not taking care of myself – stupid. Not asking for help – equally stupid. Allowing myself to puff and shake with fever – profoundly and utterly stupid.

Two bottles of pills and days of rest later leave me better, but still not well. I cough wetly, but no longer double over. My cracked lips knitted themselves together. The fever has not reappeared.

I don’t know whether my stupidity has been eradicated or just submerged. It might resurface, and rear its ugly, fever-bitten head. I might end the semester collapsed on another thinly sheeted bed in another hospital. Or I might give up pride and stubbornness. Either way, I have only myself to lose.

Columnist Sydney Bergman can be reached at [email protected].