In our modern society we have several ‘rites of passage’ which define the transition from child to adult: the age of consent, the age when you don’t need to rely on older siblings to get you beer.
As I’m currently suffering from a nasty bout of tonsillitis I’m experiencing the full force of another rite of passage – the one where the womenfolk in your life stop being sympathetic to your illness and instead tell you to stop being a martyr.
I’m really sick. I really am. Whereas normally I’d be up and about, doing stuff, ready to run out the door to do stuff or fetch things, I find that at the moment I have only the energy to sit still. And my fever means my bedclothes are soaked with sweat. I’ve vomited once so far and god knows I loathe being sick. I can’t swallow without immense pain and talking is painful too. My glands at my neck are swollen and I’ve not eaten in 2 days. When I do finally manage to nod off at night, I’m woken up because my swollen tonsils cut off my air supply. The only things to pass my lips for the last two days are paracetamol, ibuprofen, honey and hot lemon. My voice is now a whisper and I have aches in my muscles and joints as well as hot flushes and shivers. I’m sick. It’s the truth.
This is what my throat looks like:
Credit: Tonsillitis Article on Wikipedia
Now, other people may have had the same or similar infection but it’s never going to affect two people identically. Some people recover quickly, some take longer. And if you’re stressed or run-down then you’re going to be sick for longer. Just because someone else wasn’t bedridden with the damn thing it doesn’t mean I’m malingering here.
I’m tired of the “man flu” comments and the “martyr” digs. I’m fucking sick here. If you know me at all you’d know I’d never choose this. I’d never go without food for two days. I love my food!
Yes, I am having a moan. But I’m very very uncomfortable.