I am woozy and light-headed. My left foot hurts and my chest has a weird ache. Thank God it’s not my ankle because that would definitely mean chik-v. I am now so cold. My pajamas, hoodie, sheet, and blanket are not making this any better. Is this headache for real, though? Crap. I should have blended those now dry and wilted papaya leaves like my husband had suggested.
Mother of God, I am at Death’s door. Or maybe his verandah. Who cares, I’m in his neighbourhood. There are fireworks behind my eyes and lava where my brain should be. My entire body is sprained. Warm tears now run down my cheek and I am having the opposite of a full body massage.
I am constantly being transported between a live volcano and Antarctica. Mortals call it the chills. I am so hot, Frodo would take the ring to be destroyed on my forehead. More papaya leaf juice. Or extract. It’s so bitter it would make Hitler cringe. At this point I would swallow a snail if it would make me better. Painkillers are as effective as Sweetarts.
My geriatric limbs cannot take me to the bathroom in less than a minute. My bladder has forgotten how to bladder. Everything tastes weird. Is this soup or thick water? Surely I will feel better tomorrow.
Headache has receded to the back of my skull and the rest of the pains follow suit. I can shower on my own. I can walk to the kitchen. Too bad I’m out of water; my lip is cracked and chapped. Thank God I don’t have ebola. This is the worst lettuce I’ve ever tasted.
I feel good. I will sweep and clean up this messy place. Right after I make some pineapple-cherry juice and go buy some sugar. Wait, where the heck is this headache coming from again? Didn’t I just get 5 minutes of valuable sunshine and fresh air? Am I not cured of this pestilence?
Ugh, the little beans behind my ears, in my pits, and you know, there, now hurt. Why do I feel so itchy? Ugh.
Mother of God. My beans are killing me! I am 95 again and tastefully dotted with red splotches everywhere. My face is shedding disgracefully and itching forcefully. What. The. Actual. Heck. Welcome back fever, you were missed. Truly.
James Vincent McMorrow is transporting me to another world. I see Chinese ladies playing banjos in a field. I need him to sing the soundtrack to my life. And sing it live at my funeral. Because surely I am laying in Death’s own soft, spongy, double bed.
I am still here. And James is still with me. My beans are smaller but still very tender. My taste buds are working now and I have a reservoir of water. My lips are still extremely chapped.
Surely this virus was created by the US as a means of biological warfare. I am itching to scratch myself. Maybe I should create a human grater? No. Better I make bed angels. Think snow angels. Ah, it works.
Crazy thought: aren’t bodies just so weird? It’s like, it’s a person but when the person dies, it’s just a thing because the person is so much more: a personality, a host of special memories and moments. But what is one without the other? I don’t know. I’m probably high on Histal right now. My baby is gonna be so cute.