Healing

One of the stranger things about having fever for three days was the unusual clarity I had most of the time. I did not have any bizarre fever dreams; instead I thought of eulogies and heartbreak--when I wasn’t going to the bathroom to spit out phlegm with blood, of course.

The sore throat was a sign that things would get more uncomfortable. Drinking with ice during rainy days shouldn’t be an issue, but my sensitive throat still became a mess. The shifty weather didn’t help, and I don’t seem to adapt well to those changes like I used to. I did finish an article about health tips, ironically, before succumbing to drowsiness. When I woke up, my throat wasn’t painful but phlegm had built up. I kept waking up to spit. Thankfully, the bathroom’s just a few feet away from my bed.

So it was a weird routine during the first 24 hours. I’d feel really cold, then hot. I had little to no appetite for food. I couldn’t finish fried chicken--an easy task, under normal circumstances. I had to drink lots of water, maybe more water than I drank in about a week. I kept going to the bathroom every half-hour or so to pee and spit, ever-curious if there’s still blood in my phlegm. Some people online say that it might be old blood and no cause for worries, and it’s something I’ve experienced for maybe half my life. Sometimes there were red chunks; sometimes they looked paler and liquefied.

Before falling asleep, I’d have long hours thinking about mortality, mine and others’:

I’d probably write decent eulogies for people closest to me. If I suddenly die, I hope my family can look at my blog and read a few years’ worth of my thoughts. I’m not really scared of dying, but I’m scared of suffering before that or leaving unfinished business.

When I wasn’t feeling totally feverish, I bathed, which always felt good, but the phlegmatic throat remained. I also threw up, which made me feel better after. I kept sinking into my bed, and distracted myself with Kurt Busiek’s classic Avengers run and back-to-back episodes of Futurama and How I Met your Mother. Both shows were pleasant distractions (although there was a Futurama episode where Fry and Zap Brannigan became sex slaves/ comfort men of giant Amazons--still funny but a bit disturbing).

By day three I didn’t feel the need to take paracetamol. I did go out quickly to buy toiletries and some food. I was getting my appetite back. I kept watching TV on my bed, while finding words to fit how I’ve been feeling in the last couple of months. I found myself crying by the end of an episode of How I Met Your Mother, which was about how a character recovered from heartbreak. The narrator’s final words were simple: “The only thing that can really heal a broken heart is time.” Then a light remake of The Cure’s “Boys Don’t Cry” played in the background. It was one of those rare syntheses of writing, music and visuals that really tugged at the heartstrings.

So here I am, feeling loads better. And no, no more bloody phlegm. I’ll be okay. I’ll be great.