Prehumous, for now — 2 mins

This may be my last blog post, for I am dying. I am never dramatic about being ill, and this sore throat and cough, though they be the cause of my inevitable demise, shall not thwart my steely resolve. So, gentle reader, please consider this my final letter, my last hurrah, my Heath Ledger’s Joker.

While I don’t have coronavirus, I do feel as though I should be treated that way; waited on, my every whim anticipated and catered for, news reports on my bedrest. I have been slightly ill for a couple of days. After a sleepless night, I decided that after taking Cesia to work, I’d go back to bed. I fell asleep for two and a half hours and then filled my body with soup.

I brought my laptop to my bed and watched Netflix while I drifted in and out of sleep, and was reminded of when I was recovering from a tonsillectomy and my parents put the little TV from their room into mine. I was probably five years old, and after my soft green diplodocus toy and I returned from the hospital, I was quarantined in my bedroom while life continued on downstairs.

While watching TV I self-medicated with jelly and icecream for throat swellage and pain. One of my various sisters had a birthday (I don’t remember which sister; I was wasted on prescription icecream and this was 25 years ago). I couldn’t join in because, in my weakened state, I could have caught something from one of my anonymous sister’s disease infested friends so I listened to the the celebration from upstairs.

There was a balloon clown at the party, and I wanted to see the show. My parents decided to let me downstairs just for the performance, and I sat at the front of the group, closest to the the door back upstairs to my room. The balloon clown made balloon animals, I assume — I can’t remember, it was a bad idea to write about a memory this far gone. He made a giraffe, perhaps, and possibly a horse. He likely made a dog because giraffe, horse and dog are surely the same balloon animal with different length necks. I presumably loved it.

One of the many things I don’t remember about this event is whether I got more sick after the party. I expect I did because my parents trusted the power of balloon magic to protect their favourite child from germs and viruses. It’s entirely possible that the reason I don’t remember more details is that I became delirious with a deadly fever. I may have fallen into a coma. I might still be in it.

My go-to snack when I’m ill is peanut butter on toast, identical to my non-ill snack. So I’m going to go and make that. I’ll make some tea as well, and then probably fall back to sleep. There are no balloon clowns to keep me occupied but Netflix can fill that void. And if I do die from a mild temporary sickness, please remember that I didn’t want to be dramatic. Please, build monuments to my modesty and throw parades commemorating how little I wanted my downfall sensationalised. And always, always, remember to share my blog posts on social media.

Adieu.

Don’t panic about corona. Make sure to wash your hands regularly and carry alcohol gel for times you can’t get to a sink. Also, what’s your go-to snack when you’re ill? Let me know in the comments, or tweet me.

If you enjoyed reading about me being ill and want to read more, then you’re strange and mean. But luckily you can click here.