Lying on my bed. Body burning up. Belly deflated. Persistent itchy swells all over. Half closed eyes focused on the ceilings (as if they’ll help). Taste buds functioning below par. Weakness all over. I won’t tell you what was wrong with me, but I’m sure you know what it is already if you’ve ever had chicken pox.
As much as I hate this situation, I must confess that it presents me the opportunity to review the immediate past activities, as well as the events around me. Things I ordinarily won’t think twice about or devote much time to. The disappointing thing about it, however, is that the thoughts don’t stick around for long. I clearly remember two though.
I’ll start with my thoughts on friends and the people quite close to someone. I need not spell it out that friends are really important when we aren’t feeling like our normal self. They augment the little strength left in us. A little “you’re gonna be alright” can mean a lot. I noticed something though. A few will only give you just one “S” word Sorry, or in some cases two, “Eeyah/Oh. Sorry.” (Eeyah is kinda like a pitiful “Oh”). Saying sorry is good, but another “S” word is better — Support. No offence, but sorry doesn’t mean much to a broke, lonely, hungry invalid. Some will even tell you, “You need to take care of yourself.” The hell! You think I don’t know that? (my thought). I’m probably guilty of the same crime (Nobody holy pass o… *in 2face’s voice*), I know better now.
My second thought relates to the doctors. It’s not as serious as the first anyway, but my mind won’t let go. First, I really commend doctors, becoming one isn’t a joke. I remember going to the health centre to get medications since I seriously needed some. I sat patiently, pretending I’m not so bad among the other few fine looking invalids (don’t know who is deceiving who). After about an hour of waiting, my turn came. One thing I realised about doctors; they hate to be taught their profession. “Please sit down. What can I do for you?” He said. I told him I have chicken pox (still don’t know how they arrived at that name anyway) and he abruptly cut in, “How did you know you have that? It’s my job to tell you that.” Since he’s the boss, I kept calm while he asked other questions. Then another thing caught my attention and a question popped in instantly. Why is it that most doctors don’t write very legibly when writing diagnosis or prescription? I felt the urge to say a few words like “Dude! This isn’t an examination or something, I’m not gonna copy you!” So sick for that even if I wanted to. I’m seriously looking forward to seeing a doctor with a legible writing, as long as I’ll only be an observer, not a patient.
I’m aware that I said I clearly remember two thoughts. A thought, however, kept troubling me, yearning to be written/told and read/heard. It’s a thought that occupies my mind whenever I’m an invalid. Nothing feels better than returning to one’s normal being. The thought of one’s healthy self; devoid of weaknesses, fever, itchy swells and tastelessness.
The thought of good health!
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Adewoyin Joseph || @Jossef69