With my cap and gown still nearly attached to my body, I boarded a plane to New Orleans just hours after graduating. I was supposed to be the last one to arrive: The late comer whose inability to sufficiently say goodbye to Georgetown and her mother held her up until Sunday afternoon.

When I didn’t arrive at my apartment by midnight – I was scheduled to be in by 10 p.m. – my roommate Facebook messaged me, “Are you OK?” I was, just delayed two hours in Atlanta where I sat on a dirty carpet reminiscing about old friends and a new phase in my life.

But then it happened – I started coughing. It came suddenly, perhaps a consequence of new surroundings. Regardless of what triggered it, the cough, it hasn’t stopped since.

When I boarded the plane I thought for sure I’d be over my newfound sickness. I went to sleep, leaning on the plane window hoping the terrible itch in my throat would go away. It didn’t. I woke myself up coughing and watched our plane land in New Orleans through watery eyes. I’ve never had allergies.

I tried to hide it the first day, silently holding in my coughs as muffled sounds. It’ll go away, I thought.  Instead, the coughs – which come about every 10 minutes – have spread to other participants. My hidden muffles of the first day have turned into a chorus of coughs as other participants have developed “my allergies.” Hopefully my fellow participants won’t hold it against me. Hopefully, I won’t be remembered as the girl who spread her cough but rather as the one who eagerly worked through it, making special stops at Rite Aid to purchase a bottle big enough for everyone to share.