The amount of sick I have been this week is inversely proportional to the variety of cold medicines offered in London shoppes.
That is, I am very sick, and across the whole city, London shoppes offer exactly 2 brands of cold medicine which, at this point, I am convinced are just empty plastic capsules (the night-time ones are definitely empty; I know that the day-time ones contain at least caffeine because they keep me awake during the day-despite my best efforts).
Also, I miss Wal-Mart. That holy ground of American variety. And I would be willing to pay someone to smuggle me in some NyQuil across the border.
I don’t understand why my body continues to rebel against me. Thanks to my handy dandy blog posts (or lack thereof), I have a general record of how many times I have been sick since moving here. The tally is 5 times since classes began in October. Because March has just begun, I don’t count it. And so that’s a total of at least once a month for five months; although I’ve been in general good health since 2015 began, a couple of my illnesses prior to Christmas happened a blissful week apart from each other.
I treat my body so nicely. I give it tons of fruits and veggies and never eat anything that comes in an airtight package. I wash my hands constantly. I exercise and meditate on most days. Why is it not nice to me?
My boyfriend’s theory is that I’m too nice. If I were to dirty it up every once in a while, you know, be dangerous and not wash my hands before cooking, my immune system would get stronger. I can’t even pretend that that’s going to happen.
This whole illness (the full list of symptoms of which I will not go into here) is not made any better by my normally very sweet boyfriend being terrified of sitting next to me because he knows he’s going to get sick next. I can’t say that I blame him. This specific bout of plague hit me like a brick wall. I didn’t even have half a day of warning before it hit full steam. And it has reduced me to tears multiple times in the three days that I have been suffering. But still, a hug or a pat on the shoulder would be nice.
I like to think that I am usually strong against illness (this might not be the reality). However, I’m fairly certain that this scourge is a mutant of a different caliber. Because it was able to knock me on my ass as hard as it did, I deem it ‘Woman Flu’.
Some people experience sickness more in the mornings. It’s usually nighttime that’s worse for me. Especially because the night-time cold medicine capsules put me out for exactly 90 minutes. After which, I am up for hours. Unable to breathe. Contemplating life, and trying to move millimetre by millimetre to test the waters for my nasal passage to open up enough for me to breathe. I usually decide, ‘f&*% it, I’ll just breathe with my mouth open and deal with the consequences when I undoubtedly wake up in an hour’. When sleep still doesn’t come, I resign myself to sleep the whole next day.
But that didn’t happen!
Because my lovely upstairs neighbours (I say lovely with only a bit of sarcasm because they did win me over by offering a tray of very nice chocolates in preparation for this construction) are having both their kitchen and bathroom (right above our bedroom) completely gutted and redone. Fabulous timing! That means sawing, hammering and yelling from 8:30-5. No rest for me.
But the Woman Flu seems to be at the back end (knock on wood). Stay tuned for the Man Version, probably appearing in 12-24 hours.