It is with great sorrow, for some of you, that I am compelled to inform you that the reports of my death were, in fact, exaggeration.

It is something my editors wanted me to clear up.

“Scott, we haven’t heard from you in 10 days. Since we have not received your obituary, could you please clear up the status of your mortality. That and we want to know if we should continue to pay you.”

Yes, I am, as far as I can tell, alive, not that there weren’t times these past two weeks that I wish I wasn’t.

I realize that I am violating the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act of 1996 by doing this, but I always have been a rebel and laws seldom pertain to me.

So, here I am, divulging the status of my health, which is: Not very good.

It all began with the celebration of the 58th anniversary of my birth, which was Dec. 4.

The actual celebration came the night before, on Dec. 3.

By all accounts, I was in fairly good health at that point.

The next day, I still was in fairly good health, although a bit weary from the previous night’s celebrations.

My daughter, however, was not. She was sick and, by all appearances, seemed to have the flu.

The flu, some may recall, is part of this year’s dreaded “Tridemic.” Also known as the Triple Pandemic, the Trio of Death, Tres Muerte and, in some underdeveloped parts of America, “FAKE NEWS.”

By Dec. 5, a Monday, Jenna was still feeling under the weather and I was feeling fine. I went into the woods.

It was there that I realized that something was slithering around inside me, working its way to my chest and throat and head.

So I did what all men do: I drank beer in hopes that it would somehow wash it out of my system.

My friend Todd and I spent about two hours on the porch, occasionally looking in on Jenna, who at 13 is too young to imbibe.

Still, I had this nagging feeling that beer would not be the cure-all this time.

“Eh, it seems like a bad cold,” I told myself, forgetting that my daughter is 45 years younger than me and children, by nature, can overcome illnesses way sooner than us adults who have tortured our bodies for decades.

I went to sleep early that night.

It was the last good night’s sleep I have had.

The next three days were spent in hazy fits of sickness, from coughing to aching and a fever that would not quit.

Still, I was hungry. Ravenous at times.

A good sign.

The flu, I surmised, would ease its way out of my system and I would be good to go for the last weekend of

regular season for deer.

Then, panic. I gasped for breath. I could not sleep. I coughed and wheezed. I could no longer eat, having no desire at all.

This continued through the weekend and was only getting worse.

My girlfriend suggested, demanded, that she take me to Urgent Care first thing Monday morning.

I was in no shape to argue.

By Monday I was but a shell of my former self, having lost nine pounds. I was pale and dehydrated and, well, extremely ornery.

Even my dogs were scared of me. I nearly strangled the guinea pig. My daughter hasn’t spoken to me all week.

I was prescribed steroids and antibiotics and a pill for my cough and told to drink a lot and buy some Mucinex and whatever other pills I could get my hands on.

An acute upper respiratory infection, is what I was told.

It was not until Thursday that I began to feel somewhat better.

By Friday I was at 50 percent, which to me was enough to cancel my funeral.

COVID had nothing on this, I concluded.

As of now, I am, indeed, alive and semi-well. By the time you read this, that may have changed.

If it has, well, look for my obituary on Monday.

(Scott DeSmit is a general assignment reporter for The Daily Iberian. He can be reached at desmitmail@yahoo.com).