The Ballad Of A Sick Cerule

I wake up each morning to a small arsenal of pills. Pills and ear drops. It does not need to be a constant reminder of my sickness; every waking moment is that. It is a reminder of getting well – a getting which has not been gotten soon enough. The recovery is often worse than the intense sick – because then, I have the energy to be impatient. While being sick, that is my only reality. I have no concept of time, or of anything else. I am truly Zen in those moments. Excepts, of course, for the raging delirium.

Ah, the delirium. I managed to escape its full, clutching grasp this time, but its potent fingers still brushed and often caressed my aching head. I would pull out of it every few hours only to retreat back in, into a world where pain was merely a cherry-topped tree…

Which, somehow, brings me here. I am lying on my bed, my home for the last week. Funny, I’d been housesitting for nearly two weeks, in two different places, both very far from home (in RI terms, of course), thinking about how I hadn’t slept in my own bed for so long… towards the end of the two weeks I was glad to be heading back. Be careful what you wish for, indeed.

My only breaks from this bed have been the occasional doctor visits and short trips to the bathroom and kitchen for tea and water. Eating did not seriously cross my mind until two days ago, and I have still not managed to put down the equivalent of a meal – my total for the week, that is. “Not a very good crash diet,” Doctor #2 said. Hardy fucking har.

I am still incoherent. Or rather, still trying to pull together collective coherence. I’m okay for a little while, then my mind invariably goes off on some tangent, reminiscent of the delirium. Only difference is, I can pull back much quicker.

Ah, but the adjusting back to it all… sigh. I hope at least that this was a good purging; it came at the worst of times, really, when I have precious little time – four weeks until The Big Move. A week in bed, and the following spend readjusting. I get into such odd mental states when I’m this sick; it always takes as long as the sickness lasted to get back to, er, normal.

I don’t know where I’m going with this writing. Tangents, I guess. Each pause brings about a new wave of thoughts, previous waves gone and forgotten, which make flow and continuity impossible and uneven breakage and short awkward ramblings inevitable.

So perhaps I should just stop while I still have some credibility left.
I can’t believe I ran out of chamomile tea.

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