I’ve been in a fog for the last week.

I’m not just talking about the dense wall of mist that’s been surrounding Whidbey Island on a regular basis, but a fog known as “Megan should have gotten her flu shot.”

Everyone kept asking me if I’d done it. And I always seemed to have an excuse.

I EVEN went with someone to get theirs not too long ago.

Yet here I found myself, sitting at my desk last Tuesday getting the flu. I warmly referred to it as “death” when I e-mailed my father from my fevered stupor.

Subject line: I’ve caught the death.

Inside the message, “if you don’t hear from me send someone to retrieve my body.”

My dad’s used to these kind of e-mails from me. I get a paper cut and I’m dying.

But really, the 48-hours fever, chills, body aches, headache and cough felt like death.

Sure I got two days off from work, but who wants two days off when you’re stuck at home with a box of tissue?

One thing my immobile state allowed was to get through an entire season of Lost on Netflix.

Want to talk about a fog? Lost is the epitome of a foggy abyss.

What the heck is going on? Four seasons in, and I’m still not entirely sure.

I’m not even really sure I like the show, but still, I’m four seasons in. It must be finished.

However foggy my recent week has been, I’m starting to see the light shining through that wall.

My stuffy nose is less and less congested each day, I’m on the downward trek on my journey that is Lost and when I drive home from work I can now see 20 feet in front of me.

Sometimes fog comes at you from all different sides, and you have to wait it out with plenty of ibprofen and fluids.

Or you can take mine, and the Center for Disease Control’s advice and get a flu shot.

Trust me.