Just a month ago, I was going on about how healthy I was feeling. I was exercising and eating well and generally starting off the year running. Every weekend since then, I’ve either been sick or had a dentist appointment.
Last week I fell ill, for the second time this year, with a terrible case of food poisoning. I was up all night when it hit, vomiting every fifteen minutes for close to four hours, and every hour after that, until finally falling asleep at 6:30am. The next day or two I looked like I was wearing a dark red eye-mask with all the blood vessels I had broken from dry-heaving. Not a great way to spend a night.
In the middle of this, I was trying to decide whether I should head to the hospital or not. Being sick is simple when you live with people. You can just carry on moaning and let others decide if you’re going to die or not. I love living alone, but I absolutely hate it when I’m sick. I’m a worst-case scenario guy, so I always envision myself being discovered a week later after the neighbours started to smell something funny coming through the walls. I don’t want to be found prostrate before a toilet, bloated and alone, fully naked except for a pair of soiled underwear.
I decided, at four in the morning, to give my parents a call and ask them if I was dying. To be fair, my mom works nightshift, so I thought she’d actually be up. No one answered, so I left a quick message for them, and a few hours later I finally fell asleep. I actually feel quite bad about this, because I awoke to a cell phone full of worried messages. Apparently the voicemail I left sounded quite pathetic, like Tiny Tim after having been severely beaten.
I spent the next couple of days drinking protein shakes and watching Dexter. Thankfully I’ve fully recovered, and just in time to get my wisdom teeth pulled this Friday at what will be my third dentist appointment so far this year.
I’m already sick of 2009.
