Can't fight it. Can't change it. It is what it is. Twice a year--October and April--I get horribly, horribly sick, and probably will for the rest of my life. It begins as a sniffle or a tickle or even a shiver. Then, like Hurricane Ike, it gains momentum until it quickly, but finally, reaches shore. And by that time, you can't stop it, you can only brace yourself for the ride. And, yes, if you haven't figured it out yet, I am sick. Truly sick. Deathly sick. I have only a squeak of a voice left, beat up bones and internal organs from a cough so violent and so relentless that it has registered on the Richter Scale, throbbing temples and a headache that won't quit, asthmatic episodes, and dry heaving. Insult to injury? Everytime I cough, I wet my pants a little. Sexy.