Down with the Sickness

24 02 2010

Was out sick all week last week. Throat infection, high fever, splitting headache, chills and, later on, major allergies from the antibiotics I was taking to quell things in the first place. At least the rash explained why I wasn’t getting any better despite day after day of clockwork medication; I had actually been poisoning myself with said meds. In fact, after it was finally decided that I should stop taking the antibiotics, I woke up feeling absolutely perfect the next day. No temperature, no pain, no nothing. I still looked like a leper with my rash, but I was fine.

Of the many annoyances I had endured that week — food tasting like compacted mucus; water tasting like osterized mucus; waiting forever in the hospital ER’s airless isolation unit, wilting with fever, staring in horror at the porcelain bowl marked H1-N1 — nothing was as horrible as the combination of a week’s worth of missed work lurking in my email, rubbing its hands together and muhu-wah-hah-hah-ing with profound relish; paying for everything without a health card (6 months to go before I get benefits); and knowing my next pay would be diminished because of my absences. Nothing makes you more domestic than being sick — all you can think of while writhing in bed are the groceries and the rent and the bill for utilities.

But that’s just me. It seems that my most dominant worries are always money and work. D (who was a saint of a man-slave throughout this ordeal, by the by) laments this so-called inability of mine to value my wellbeing over everything else. I do, however, think of it more as a delusion of grandeur. That I am invincible despite my biology. It is the same reason why, when I was run over by a trike driven by a shiv-wielding, drugged-up thief a few years ago, I wasn’t thinking of the shiv being thrust in my face, or the weight of the vehicle forcing itself roughly over my leg. All I could think of on that truly awful morning, as I lay flat on my back in the middle of the road with a bleeding leg, was that I was going to miss my OJT, and that meant I would have to make up for missed work hours and shit was that a bitch.

“Do you want to die?” D asked sternly one morning, when I was still very sick but was insisting on getting up for work, inability to walk and bathe and swallow be damned. I knew what he meant, and I love him for saying it, and I did end up crawling back into bed and passing out again. Until now, however, the idea of my own mortality remains grossly fictional to me, like UFOs and crop circles, or the moon landing, or Taylor Swift’s burgeoning career. But I hope one day to be remedied.




2 responses

16 03 2010

I don’t think it’s weird that you just wanted to go to OJT after you got attacked by a crazy trike driver. I got hit by a car on campus and just got up and kept walking because I didn’t want to miss dinner.

16 03 2010

Yay, I’m not alone! Didn’t the driver worry? Or you lucked out and there were no wounds whatsoever?

Now that I think about it, though, parang iba ang OJT sa pagkain. At least yung goal mo proper nourishment. 🙂

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