BEING SICK IS SICK

Photo: "Medicine Through a Straw"
By Skitch

NOW:

 
     One moment I am cold, so cold my bones are made of ice. I lie there and shiver and fantasize about hot baths, crackling fires, deserts. I pull the cover over my head and shiver. That warm cover is my best friend!

     Suddenly, I am hot, so hot my blood is made of lava. I throw the offending cover off and cuddle and cling to the cold dead wood of the wall. I fantasise about The North Pole, Christmas, ice cold swimming pools. That cool wall is my best friend!

     When I breathe my lungs ache. Wouldn't it be nice if I could live without breathing? When I swallow dozens of small, invisible razor blades assail my throat. Speaking is torturous. I don't want to swallow my own spittle, and I consider drooling it out on the pillow, but then I would be wet, nasty, and miserable. Best to just be just miserable. Best to endure the razor blades.

     Every time I try to sleep I snore. The spousal unit wakes me to roll over, to  take meds, to adjust the angle of my neck, convinced I'm not really resting, convinced that snoring has to be hard on my already sore throat. He has my best interests at heart, but even my attitude is sick. I want to rage and beat him up. But I have to save my energy for swallowing. Besides, if I run him off, who will get my medications, pull my cover back up when I'm cold again, and bring me that juice and tea I can barely swallow? Who will make me swallow it? I settle for shooting him dirty looks over my teacup and I hope he doesn't notice. I don't have the breath to explain that I've been reduced to a Big Mean Baby. I stare into my tea and fight the Big Mean Baby. She's not running off my nurse!

     As if things weren't bad enough, humiliating enough, I have to call in sick at work, use my struggling lungs and my tortured throat to tell them that I'm a hopeless, helpless, Big Mean Baby. I want to decide when I work, not some germ or virus. I hate admitting that I'm malfunctioning, that I'm broken, damaged! Not only am I a Big Mean Baby, but now I have to admit it, have to talk about it. Leave me alone!

     What's the point of this anyway? "Here," Says The Universe, "Have a virus. You've been too productive lately, too happy. Have a bug that will knock you to your knees. Be UN-happy, UN-healthy, UN-productive. Be a Big Mean Baby for a while. See how you like that." 

     Well, I don't!

     Reading or writing gives me a headache. But so does T.V. or lying here staring at the ceiling, or sleeping. 

     "Here," Says that sneaky, evil Universe, "Have a headache."

     I curl up or stretch out. I hug my fickle friends the cover and the wall. I pray to be well again soon, before the Big Mean Baby opens her Big Mean Mouth and wins. I fight her. I wait. I swallow. I breathe...

     Being sick is sick!