It’s very fucking stressful for everyone around me when I get sick.
Because apparently I can be dramatic.
‘No yoga today,’ I texted my girlfriend. ‘I’m dying. Fever, shaking, delirious…’
She’s heard it all before. ‘Feel better, she sighed. Call me if you need anything.’
Well, what would she do anyway? What does one do for terminal disease?
I turned to the internet.
Do not turn to the internet when you get sick. EVER.
Because I definitely had the plague. Bubonic plague.
I texted Tessa to tell her she could have my dresses and Sarah my shoes. Katy got the art, Julia the dogs, and BB could have the rope and handcuffs.
I wasn’t sure about the erotica. Maybe they could bury me with it.
And then I phoned my doctor to see if he would do a house call. It would be nice to at least be comfortable while I was dying.
‘Violet, honey. The flu is going around. Take two panado, you’ll be fine.’
I argued. And he reminded me of all the times I’d had lung cancer (a cough) brain tumor (headache) and was pregnant even though two tests and a scan had showed up negative.
Never mind menopause.
Oh, fuck them all. They’ll feel bad when I die.
I took two panado. I lay on the couch, switched on the television and watched Grey’s Anatomy.
Do not ever watch Grey’s Anatomy. Or ER. Or Scrubs.
It’s not the plague, it’s worse, far, far worse.
Life is hard for a hypochondriac. And lonely.
Anyone wanna come lie in bed with me?
It’s cosy. I’ve made tea. And it could get sexy.
Even if I’m contagious.