Tuesday, November 12, 2013

25 Days of Being Sick: My Month of Denial

Day 1: Notice your throat is sore. Dismiss this. Tell yourself that the multivitamins you are taking are so strong you don't even notice that right now you are probably in the throes of a deathly virus, and because of said vitamins are basically impervious to deathly virus, only noticing the bits of a sore throat.

Day 4: After a few days of telling yourself this you concede and buy sinus medicine. After all, the weather is changing. It's probably allergies.

Days 5-7: Medicate yourself into a haze, telling yourself you can't possibly be sick. Thank the good Lord that it is the weekend and you don't have to get dressed.

Day 8: Monday you wake up at four thirty and you realize that you are definitely sick. Contemplate calling in sick for the next two and a half hours, and eventually begrudgingly send sick notices to all coworkers. Lie in bed thinking longingly of your childhood ailments and how your mom would make you cinnamon sugar toast with scrambled eggs. Pull yourself out of bed to attempt a fried egg sandwich on toasted bread. Burn the bread. Eat the egg with a spoonful of mayonnaise, make a second cup of tea to wash the NyQuil down, and go back to bed. Sleep.

Day 9: Wake up, feel marginally better, and go to work. Lie to your coworkers, your family, and your boyfriend, telling them all that you feel fine. When they say how bad you sound, tell them you sounded much worst yesterday.

Day 10: You feel worse than you did Monday. Call in sick again. Take NyQuil and fall asleep to the Disney movies Netflix just added to its catalog. Marvel that you ever thought the Rescuers had a happy ending when it's clear that she was only adopted out of pity for her admittedly horrible kidnapping experience. Feel sad. Take more NyQuil. Fall asleep only to dream about Madame Medusa and those three hundred pound alligators.

Day 13: It's the weekend again. By now you've developed a Nyquil habit, and are beginning to experience the strangest of nightmares. Your cough is much worse, yet you muddle through best you can, telling yourself you are on the mend. Mind over matter, right? Right.

Day 15-18: These days are a muddled haze of DayQuil, NyQuil, and assorted nightmares. You dream of zombies, you dream of scary men chasing you, and you have dreams which are so psychologically scarring you hesitate to tell anyone at all about them for fear of what they say about your mental health. You frequently cough yourself into a tizzy, and google whether it is possible to cough up a lung. Your boyfriend, your friends, and random people on the metro will tell you to go to the doctor. You say no, you are sure you are getting better, and that being sick for two and a half weeks is not an unheard of occurrence in your life.

Day 20: It's the weekend. You spend the day with your visiting friend in pajamas, and stay on the couch most of the day. Whenever you move you are taken by a coughing fit, so it seems easier to just stay immobile. You begin to entertain strange fantasies where you are homebound for the rest of your life.

Day 22: You can no longer speak full sentences due to your cough, and communicate exclusively via text message.

Day 23: You text your boyfriend asking if he will take you to the doctor.

Day 24: You spend the day asking if he will let you renege on your hasty text sent in the midst of a horrendous coughing fit. He says no. You protest that a life lived on DayQuil can't be all bad. He says that is not an option.

Day 25: You are dragged kicking and screaming to the doctor. At the time you do not have quite as severe symptoms, due to it being early morning, and thus feel that perhaps you were overreacting by going to the doctor. But you go to the doctor, and two hours later are told you have a sinus infection and a bad case of bronchitis. You are loaded up with antibiotics, cough suppressants, and syrup with codeine which will unfortunately prevent any alcohol for a while, but also promises interesting out of body experiences. That night you thank your boyfriend profusely for insisting you go to the doctor, and drink your codeine-laced dream syrup.

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