Being sick makes me feel powerless and weak. Like I’m only five-years-old. I’m now the victim preyed upon by a heartless virus. My glands swell. The fine hairs on my body stand up. Every touch uncomfortable. Every sniffle a reminder. I may try to power through the impending doom. Convinced I’ll be fine. I shiver. I shudder. I’m not fine.
I need my mom to bring me tea and popsicles, to sit on the couch and watch so many hours of television that the rectangular screen becomes a blur, to whimper at the sight of food, to groan when I see a loved one has texted me, to whine, to bitch, to sleep till I feel this intolerable suffering chassé into the next poor soul who happened to cross it’s path.
I need my strength back.