Rambles of a Sick Man
In the opening paragraphs of the introduction to The Anthropocene Reviewed, John Green (one of my favourite writers) writes about his experience with labyrinthitis, and comments about the common tendency for writers to use disease as a metaphor, as an indication from the universe that something needs to change. Wisely, he writes that illnesses are not “battles to be won [or] symbolic manifestations of character flaws or whatever”, but to simply “be lived with as well as one can”.
Well, I write this while gripped with what I can only describe as a bitch of a cold, which has had me physically if not mentally incapacitated for the better part of a week now, so pardon my lack of wisdom11. In this situation, I’m sure at least one ex-girlfriend of mine will also note my penchant for self-pity, for which I am 100% guilty as charged. .
It doesn’t seem to be COVID, assuming my home rapid tests are accurate and I probed my nose correctly, which somehow makes me feel all the worse. If it really is Some Generic Rhinovirus™️, you’re telling me here that I’m here in my bed, head throbbing despite the over-the-counter painkillers, feverishly shivering, nose running the 100-meter dash, and I can’t even blame it on gain-of-function research at Chinese labs?
It must be said, there’s something about infections which help you feel very embodied. There’s nothing to get in the way of me being physically present in my body, because I have absolutely no energy for anything else. All I can do is lie here and feel every sore vocal chord in my throat, my blocked nostrils oozing with the bodies of my body’s guardians doing their absolute best to keep it together, the internal furnace cranked up to 11 to repel some foreign invader. Sure, it might hurt to speak, and my mannerisms resemble that of a zombie, but at least I’m present!
And, perhaps it’s just me, but in this state, I find it hard to not get metaphorical, to feel like there’s some kind of greater cosmic justice being exacted here. The fever isn’t just my body responding to an infection, but actually my sins being purged; sanctification by a holy pyretic flame. Because when I feel that terrible, it feels like I go grasping for some rhyme or reason for it beyond some guy coughing next to me on my last Costco run.
My mind immediately jumps to God’s wrath, and I should get on my knees and pray for forgiveness for having broken with my faith. God only knows that in my darkest, most desperate of hours, I still look up at the sky and silently beg for one of the Holy Trinity22. Hell, I’d even settle for one of those weird many-ringed angels if it lets me breathe through my nose again. to come down and save me from my suffering, despite not considering myself a Christian anymore. In the same way that a drowning man will reach for anything that floats, I continually find myself turning back to the religious safety blanket I was given in my childhood.
Faith, even if only in bad times, is still faith at some level. When you stare into the abyss and are terrified of what stares back, maybe those crutches you reach for, those are the things you truly believe in.
But no. I may have a flair for the dramatic, but it’s just a cold, and it will pass. Hopefully sooner rather than later, or there may be another brief and melodramatic essay coming soon.
It’s fun to be writing long-form again. Hopefully I’ll have a decent writing piece coming out soon.