Janet (j4) wrote,
Janet
j4

Cold comfort

I'm not blogging about the elections. I'm barely even watching the elections (though I'm listening to the BBC's live streaming video in the background). I make a lousy political commentator at the best of times, and this is not the best of times.

I've had a lousy cough and cold for several days, and last night it turned nasty; tonsils swelled up, swallowing became painful and difficult, speaking became nearly impossible. This morning it took the doctor about 2 seconds to diagnose tonsilitis. ("What's wrong?" "*croak*" "Let's have a look... oh dear. Are you allergic to penicillin? You've got tonsilitis." She'd printed out the prescription practically before I'd answered her, though the only answer I could manage anyway was a shake of the head.)

I hate coughs and colds. I hate their narrowing effect; the throat narrowing to a painful bottleneck, the nasal passages narrowing from a river of air to a stagnant trickle, the lungs tightening and wheezing. Time narrows, too: to the next dose of painkillers, or the next digit on the clock through the long sleepless hours of the night. But worst of all, the mind narrows; lights go out throughout all the buildings that make up the civilisation of the psyche, until it's left as a vast disused lot with just one single dogged but insignificant train of thought, marching like a line of ants across a pile of rubble. Every cough and sneeze jolts it off track; it struggles to get through the tangled undergrowth of pain and the sticky dust of congestion; it forever risks being washed down the cracks with the endless pourings-on of boiling water (mitigated by herbal teabags); and when it does get anywhere, the 'line' turns out to be a scurrying disconnected mass. It can only carry anything if all the parts work together; and under that sort of onslaught, they don't always manage it.

Here they come, though. Struggling through, carrying the last leaf-fragments of this post on their backs, before crawling back underground into the dark.
Tags: illness, nablopomo
Subscribe
  • Post a new comment

    Error

    Anonymous comments are disabled in this journal

    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded 

  • 3 comments