I was SO sick last week. (Cue reader: “How sick WERE you?”)

I was so sick, I didn’t get dressed, put on makeup or comb my new bangs for days.

I wore my pajamas, robe, wool socks and slippers under the covers in a futile attempt to stop my teeth from chattering.

My wheezing lungs actually woke me from a deep sleep two nights in a row.

I lost my appetite for FIVE WHOLE DAYS (pause for collective gasp). This beat the old record by four days and 11 hours.

I was so sick that if George Clooney had come to my room, stripped off his shirt and sat down on my bed, I’d have told him to fetch me a cup of tea, throw another blanket on and try not to slam the door on his way out. “And, for heaven’s sake, George, put something on. You’ll catch your death!”

The culprit? Type A influenza. (Ironic isn’t it? Fifty-two years and I’ve never been Type A anything, until now.)

With apologies to Elizabeth Kübler-Ross, who famously modeled the five stages of grief, I’ve identified six stages of the flu:

Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance and pity party.

I entered the denial stage last Thursday:

“Oh, no-no-no-no-no. I can’t be getting sick. I have WAY too much to do. The scratchy throat, watery eyes and headache – they’re just a reaction to the cold, dry air. I’ll break out the humidifier, double up on my fluid intake and be fine. (Cough, cough.) Just fine.”

On Friday morning, when my head was too heavy to hoist from the pillow and my eyes too bloodshot to read the alarm clock, anger set in:

“Are you KIDDING me?!? I had the shot, for crying out loud. I stood in line, rolled up my sleeve, sang ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat’ (because that’s how Mom taught me to distract myself from the needle) and got the blasted vaccine! And what was it called? Oh yes, the FLU shot! And what was it supposed to prevent? That’s right, the FLU! This is an outrage. I’m going to hop up right now, call the health department and read them the riot act … just as soon as I can … just as soon : (cough, cough, HACK): OK, maybe later.”

By Saturday afternoon, the lowest point of the siege and the worst day of my life in recent memory, I was in full-out bargaining mode:

“OK, God. Here’s the offer. I’ll give you five impure Clooney thoughts in exchange for four hours of un-cough-interrupted sleep. No good? How about 10 random acts of kindness for a Class A narcotic? Are you there, God? Oh, forget it. You’re probably in arbitration with another sap who got the flu shot.”

Depression followed quickly on the heels of failed negotiation:

“Arrrrgghhh. This is awful. I can’t believe how sick I am. I hate the flu shot. I loathe this couch. Why did I get bangs? My life sucks. No, YOU suck, Wolf Blitzer! Could these pajamas be any scratchier? (Cough, HACK, cough-cough-cough!) Woe is SO me right now.”

Finally, on Sunday, I accepted my fate:

“So, the flu shot people missed a strain. It happens. So I feel like roadkill for a few days. I’ve dodged plenty of bullets over the years. I’ll look at this as an opportunity to catch up on ‘Millionaire Matchmaker’ and ‘Make Me a Supermodel.’ Keep repeating: Down time is good, down time is good:”

On Tuesday, when I realized I was still too sick to go to work, the sixth stage reared its ugly head: “Pity, party of one, your table’s ready.”

I dragged my sorry bones out of bed, sank into the sofa with a sigh and flipped on “The Today Show.”

“How ya feelin’, hon?” asked my husband, who had been my loyal handservant for the duration.

“Terrible,” I moaned. “But you go on to work. Someone’s got to make a living.”

“Can I get you anything before I go?”

Two Popsicles, a couple of Tylenol, assorted lozenges, fresh tissues and a neck rub later, he was gone. I was left alone with Meredith, Matt, Al and Ann, none of whom were showing concern for my plight. I reached for the phone.

“Mommy,” I gasped. “I am SO sick.”

“How sick ARE you?” she asked, her voice dripping with worry.

“It’s bad, Momma. George Clooney wouldn’t even get to first base.”

“Oh, you POOR dear!”