It never fails: Another Vegas vacation, another major malady.

Last time, all three of us caught something: Jessica had her unnamed illness of probably-fatal-eventually proportions, I had the Moroccan Death Flu, and Lauren was making sweet music with her Latin lover, Roberto Herpeto. This time, I and I alone had to carry the flag of ill-fortune, the banner of bad health.

My throat exploded.

Or at least, it tried to; failing any actual success in rupturing my neck, it instead inflamed to near-choking proportions, ensuring that I couldn't indulge in much of anything this weekend that involved enjoying life, eating, sleeping, or generally being happy to be alive.

It started creeping up on me Tuesday, in the form of unusual warmth and that horrid taste in your mouth that only comes when your body's trying valiantly to fight off some intruder or other and hasn't yet decided whether it will succeed or fail. Wednesday, I called in sick. On Thursday, my throat still complaining, I attempted half-day of work, only to be sent home by my pregnant supervisor, who, despite legitimate concern for my health, probably also didn't want my germs hovering anywhere near her fetus.

That afternoon, the whole thing started to constrict. By 4 p.m., every time I swallowed, it felt vaguely like I was choking down gravel. Three hours later, with my flashlight-illuminated throat evocative of Halloween somehow and the pain situation upgraded to Eating Glass Shards With Extra-Sharp Points, a worried Lauren kindly insisted that I get off my doctor-averse duff and go to urgent care, going so far as to drive me and wait with me throughout. She even went in to see the doctor with me, and, in the waiting room, didn't treat me like the plague and sit on the opposite side of the room so as to avoid whatever lunacy was infecting the system of the freak in the white hoodie who was hugging herself, moaning and wincing, and shivering uncontrollably in her seat. That's friendship.

The doctor, rather unhelpfully, peered into my throat and said, "Oh, yeah, we've seen a lot of these." Given that I had almost burst into tears upon her arrival in the room, so happy was I at the prospect of even partial relief, I wasn't excited to hear her rather blas� diagnosis of this Satanic throat curse as "something viral." She gave me a prescription for Motrin, told me to use Chloroseptic spray, and waved me away.

She did give me a doctor's note, though � well, it was more of an indecipherable piece of paper printed with weird red boxes and text, looking awfully like the answer sheet to the SAT. I can only presume it bore all the appropriate marks that translated to, "Heather is fucked up. I promise."

Then things got bad.

The Motrin didn't work. The Chloroseptic spray was as effective as if I'd used Windex � probably less so, since the latter might have at least rid my throat of unwanted streaks and smudges, both of which were present in spades.

I spent Friday wholly miserable and unable to eat any food with corners. The infrequently updating, but still esteemed Bill brought me soup, and Carrie supplied lime Jell-O and fruit-ice Popsicles, both of which were of immense relief to me. Particularly the Popsicles, as I could eat them slowly, and for a period they numbed things.

Friday night, though, was one of the worst nights of my life. My throat had reddened and constricted to the point that I couldn't even swallow a miniscule mouthful of water in one gulp � it required three timid little ones, all of which were accompanied my mighty wincing and gritted teeth. I couldn't sleep, because if the simple act of intaking or expelling air rubbed my throat the wrong way, it jolted me awake with a cry of pain. My voice disappeared. Frantically, I called an advice nurse at Kaiser, choked out my story in the barely audible rasp of one who has laryngitis, and was told ruefully that there was nothing I could do except keep gargling saltwater (which made me choke every time I tried) and taking the Motrin (which never once eased any pain or swelling, ever).

Needless to say, by the time I arbitrarily deemed it "morning," by which I mean, the time at which I gave up on my bedroom and ventured out to the sofa, I was disconsolate. I couldn't talk. My throat was on such fire that even when I held my breath and did nothing, it burned. Drinking tea with lemon or honey, or both, did nothing. Gargling did nothing. Painkillers did nothing. Popsicles did little. Jell-O, nothing. My friends were in Las Vegas in a suite at Paris, I was missing out on all their antics, I was utterly miserable about it, and to top it off, I couldn't perform the basic life function of swallowing. The damnably attractive and fun Dr. No later thoughtfully, and at some inconvenience to himself, brought me a book, some tea specifically designed to ease sore throats, and ice cream, but I was too wigged out and achy to make proper conversation. He ended up having to leave, and I felt awful about it, but at the same time I knew I wasn't good company and all the talking was making me want to rip out my tonsils.

I wish there was a miracle turning point to this story, but there isn't. Slowly, the constant, tear-inducing pain eased up, through no particular action or other. Problematically, this coincided with the onset of a nasty cough, which served to re-irritate whatever portion of my throat had given up its earlier vendetta. So while I can say that the overall scope of my agony has reduced, there are still plenty of other frustrations.

For example, my throat cannot decide how swollen it wants to be. Within an hour, it see-saws between "distinctly better" and "only marginally less annoying than it used to be." Generally, the left side of my throat is still pretty raw, but the right side has calmed down. It was bad in the morning, eased up considerably during the day, and is now throbbing with only medium intensity. It still hurts to speak, so I don't.

Right now, I'm still gritting my teeth a little, but better enough that I'm not trying to tear out my hair or get myself on the list for a throat transplant. And I'm no longer placing desperate calls to my worried mother, begging her to come up with something that will help me get more than fifteen minutes of sleep, or bemoaning the fact that I was alone and trying to swallow Motrin pills that were barely the right size to pass down my constricted throat. Secretly, I stopped taking them unless I was on the phone with someone who could bear witness to my death by choking.

All this has me confused as to what I did to upset my throat. It can't resent the sweet, sweet alcohol. Certainly the peanut butter isn't offensive, and everyone knows that all living tissue loves Diet Coke.

The "why" probably isn't that important, though. I'm facing having to catch up for a sequence of sick days, I'm still feeling pretty low, and I'm staring down the barrel of a month-long trip for which I need to be in great health. I just need to get better. I just need to kick this thing. I just want to eat a proper meal. The closest thing to that I've been able to eat was a baked potato, and even that I couldn't finish completely before my throat started to throb again.

Argh. Maybe it's just the Vegas Curse. It's got to be.

Someone got here by searching for: my god you're greasy Reading: Harry Potter And The Order Of The Phoenix Finally! I know. I was so happy. But, as I've had little to do but sit and fervently wish for a different body, I managed to finish it already. Which is nice, but it means I have to wait another six years or whatever for her to write Book Six. But if it's good, I don't mind the wait.