I'm going down

I lay on the couch cocooned in a blanket. Alternating between feverish shivering (illness) and euphoric weeping (Springsteen live on the television machine), I tried to decide if I was delirious. I couldn't come to a conclusion.

The only thing I knew for sure: Next time I get sick, I'm hiring a cool-skinned lady to caress my forehead and fetch me water. What's the going rate for that anyway?