soopastryheart

There used to be something a little bit great about getting sick… before college, anytime you got sick, it felt like a small price to pay to stay at home, watch TV all day, and be waited on hand and foot. What’s that mom? Yes, I’d love another 7-Up. No, no more porridge, I had enough. I can’t reach the remote, could you… thanks dad.

And in college, even without the parents, getting sick meant having a legitimate excuse to skip classes and stay in bed all day. But after college?

The illusion has vanished, the luxury of lethargy depleted. At the first signs of a cold or flu, I chug a gallon of orange juice. I load up on Airborne. And then I pray that I wasn’t too late.

But my body doesn’t fight off viruses the way it used to, so the next morning when I wake up, it’s usually with a cactus in my throat, hypersensitive (and unpleasantly clammy) skin, and my entire body feeling as if it had spent all night throwing itself in front of moving vehicles. The most recent addition is a pulsating headache that occurs from behind my eyeballs, making me wish I could scoop them out and replace them with ice. You know what’s worse than shivering your ass off while simultaneously sweating from every surface point on your body? Nothing.

That’s how I felt when I got sick last week. And it seemed, no matter how much vitamin C I consumed, my immune system just couldn’t bounce back and fight. I laid (well, I guess you couldn’t call it “laying”, as I was mostly in the fetal position) on the couch/bed/floor by fireplace, doped up on NyQuil, and nearly prayed away my soul for it to stop. It meant that I missed Thanksgiving with my Imo and Harmonie, making me feel a tremendous amount of guilt that was emphasized when my brother returned with an impressive amount of leftovers (and none of which I could actually enjoy, as I had lost all appetite and the ability to taste anything).

Suddenly, whether you have a job to report to or not, being sick no longer contains any element of being fun. It’s the punishment that it was always meant to be. Suddenly, everything feels super heightened, as if the symptoms are getting worse with each cycle, warning you that you are getting ever closer to death. Or turning in to a bigger sissy, I don’t know.

Today marks exactly one week of my zombie status, and I’m still so congested (the sexy Scarlett Johansson voice eludes me, as my sick voice makes me sound like Fran Drescher) and still occasionally hit with a flash combination of fever and chills (menopause is going to be so much fun). However, I don’t feel as if I’m going to black out walking from the couch to the kitchen anymore, which means I’ll be spending some time today disinfecting everything I’ve been touching. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.

Anyway, when I wasn’t sleeping 18 hours a day, last week meant:

…A movie night with the girls, where we watched Bridesmaids and Crazy, Stupid, Love, which made me understand what the hoopla surrounding Ryan Gosling was all about.

…Daily rations that included a cocktail of medication (does Alka Seltzer taste like piss and beer to anyone else?) and the only food that didn’t want to make me throw up violently.

…Not partaking in the shitshow that is Black Friday, though the Boyfriend snuck out and managed to buy the only items that weren’t part of the sale. We were dinosaurs in the technology world, devoted to our Blackberrys, so we spent the weekend catching up, exploring Angry Birds and Instagram (Boyfriend also spent an hour talking to Siri, which, between that and his work, is going to make me obsolete).

And with this capful of yet even more medication, I toast for a better week.