I? Do Not Do "Sick."

I'm not fond of being sick. I obviously don't think anyone is, of course, but I think that being sick registers as some kind of defeat.
However, when I am sick, I admit it. I don't try going to work--I think it's rude to spread germs, I don't perform well, and I think that sleeping and medicating for one or two days is better than doing half-assed work for a number of days. I spent half of high school pushing myself through colds and the flu, only to have them last days longer than if I'd just succumbed and spent a day in bed.
I. AM. SICK.
My throat hurts. I'm snarfing up phlegm. I am not a happy person. I called my sister to tell her this, only to have her up me by projectile vomitting on the phone.
The sisters are down for the count.
I went to bed at nine last night. Which has happened, uh, never. Like, probably not since I was two and was placed in my crib and I wore myself out screaming BECAUSE SERIOUSLY? NINE? WAAY TOO EARLY, PARENTS.
I slept fifteen hours. I woke intermittently, having nightmares about the fact that I failed to give L a blurb for the newsletter, that I might not be able to check the floor before the Wednesday home-office visit, that Jack died on 24 and I missed it.
And I might have stayed in bed had my sister not called, crying. "Katy...please come here...I'm siiiick." Bea's a tough cookie, so when she cries, I jump. Suddenly my throat didn't hurt, my head wasn't pounding, my body wasn't sore. "Mama Bear" mode came over me. I rushed to her apartment, wielding gatorade and gingerale. I found her on the bathroom floor, helped her onto her bed, and crawled in. We snoozed, two sick girls curled up together.

And then I felt guilty and went to work.
It sucked.

I mean, doing any job sick sucks. Doing my job sick? Oh, you have no idea. And after dealing with 500 things and then apologizing to a customer for mistakenly sending him to another floor when I've known for, oh, A YEAR, that a book is on my "favorites" table, I said, "I'm sorry, I'm sick, I'm not on my game."
He wasn't being mean, but he said, "You don't look sick."
I mean, I guess that's nice, but next time I don't feel well I'm greasing up my hair and rubbing my eyes until they're bloodshot. Will that make me look sick? WILL YOU BE MORE SYMPATHETIC THEN??
No? Didn't think so.
I just can't win.