Down With The Sickness

The sun shone through an open window. I could hear birds singing, people laughing and talking, ELO’s Mr Blue Sky playing. I was sitting on the toilet, holding a basin, wishing I would just throw up already. Today, I was sick. And not in the cool, hip-hop way either.

In fact, by this point, I’ve been ill for two weeks. This was the second round of antibiotics, as the first one Amoxicillin was just too mild-mannered to fight off this chest infection. The flem clung to my throat and ribcage like stubborn cobwebs, or like a weepy, creepy ex. My sinuses were clogged, making my head heavy in aching pain.

I had to watch from afar- or in other words my Facebook newsfeed- all the nights out, dinners out, days out and other people having an all-out great time. I had to cancel shifts with my Easter holiday work- all of them over two weeks; Burnsfest, Easter Sunday with my family, Easter Sunday with my boyfriend’s family and god knows what else.

Why? I was housebound with it. As in the Disturbed song, I was well and truly down with the sickness. It was like the poltergeist that just wouldn’t go away. It was named The Cough.

I could barely move without coughing violently. I could barely think without coughing violently. All I did for the next five or so weeks was cough. Sometimes, I coughed for so hard and so long I made myself throw up.

I tried everything to exorcise this demon that haunted my body.

At first I thought: it’ll only last three days at most. I’ll stay positive, guzzle as many vitamins as possible, rest up and maybe if I ignore it for long enough, it’ll go away. Right? And for three days, I was led to believe this.

But on the fourth day? Nope! The Cough decided to stay, and it decided to exhaust me. For the next three days after that, I was bedridden. Then for the next two weeks, I would be couch-ridden. The Cough took up all my energy. I could barely play video games, let alone write meaningful content.

My Easter holidays evaporated and any shred of positivity had gone along with it. The Cough’s hold upon me had weakened, but I couldn’t bring myself to do everything I could do before. Still zero energy.

Another four days and I dragged myself back to work. If I didn’t go back now, The Cough would win. So I went back. I’ve been back at work for a week or so now and I’m still fighting it. Just about.

It’s not just a bad excuse for not producing new content. I really have been so ill I’ve not been able to write. I’ve been so used to going at a hundred miles an hour every day, but this past month I’ve been barely moving at a snail’s pace. Maybe if I hadn’t been going so fast, The Cough wouldn’t have had such an ample target.

I’ve decided to pace myself as best I can. I have an unbearable urge to say yes to every new project that appears but I doubt that’s a sustainable practice. This little blog post is one small baby step into creating new, fresh content for the website. Be patient though: I’m still locked in mortal combat with The Cough and it’s still breathing.

Thanks to my wonderful boyfriend for helping with the editing process. I’m still pretty new to blogging and wanted to make this one worth your while! x

Do you have any illness horror stories? Have you also been a victim of The Cough? Send me your stories in the comments! It’ll give me some goddamn perspective! 😀


The Other Ghost (flash fiction/parody)

Things are pretty crap at the moment. I have no money, my home is being run by this grieving airy-fairy American artist, my family and friends are gone, I don’t get out much. And I’m dead. Nobody talks to you when you’re dead. Nobody even knows I’m there. Even that “psychic” she hired can’t see me. Just to clarify: she’s a fraud. A total fraud. She can’t contact the dead boyfriend, he isn’t even here! It doesn’t matter what I do. She can detect diddly squat! By God she’s milking my roommate for all the money she has.

So I’m having a bit of fun with it, you know, poltergeist spooky stuff. Smashing the odd plate, scattering Cheetos on the carpet, writing scary stuff in blood on the bathroom wall, well almost. On my way into the hall, I see her manhandling the clay on the pottery wheel. Probably going to make yet another modern art monstrosity, or something. All those sculptures cluttering up my flat! I have half a mind to take a sledgehammer to all of them but those things are harder to move than potato chips.

But this time instead of having that screwy determined expression while she works, she’s all hot and bothered. The kind of hot and bothered she gets when she reads those Black Lace Novels. She’s squatting on that wooden stool, all heavy breathing like someone’s touching her.

I don’t see why you’re looking at me. I wouldn’t touch her with a bargepole. She probably thinks it’s her gooey, sickening husband from beyond the grave. I have never laughed so hard in all my death.