One of the worst parts about being sick is that you want everyone to know how sick you are, but that no one, not even your mom, cares.
Oh, we all do a great job of saying, “How are you feeling?” but the truth is that no one really wants to hear it. And by ‘it’ I mean “My hacking cough is ripping my alveoli out and replacing them with tar.”
“I’m sick,” suffices for 95% of your interactions (memo to self.)
Who can blame other people, honestly, it’s not like they are magical healers that can wave their hands in front of your abdomen, correct your chi, and banish all that sick. Instead, sick people just make us all feel uncomfortable. I don’t know how people ever become doctors or nurses because listening to Ed tell me about his gout is about the last thing I ever want to do with my life.
That’s only part of the reason that I struggle with being sick. The other part about being sick is the feeling, entirely self-imposed mind you, that my character is somehow deficient because I’ve allowed myself to get sick and allowed myself to not become instantly better. “Get it together, self!” I say to…myself.
“Yes, you had the death flu, the same flu that killed millions of people all over the world after WWI. However, really, you should just get over it.” Instead, my body just collapses in coughing fits. What is that? Who’s in charge around here anyway?
The flu. The flu is in charge.