It's a bummer to be sick and bigger bummer to be sick for over two months. It gets boring telling people how bad the back is, how high the fever is or the number shots given. Its sounds whiney after a while and in the back of my mind I remember the lines- misery loves company but the company doesn't. Initially the sympathy is there but why would anyone want to know how many times I puked into the pot, removed bits of splattered regurgitated food from my hair or clutched the bathroom tiles when the dizziness made me feel drunk without tasting alcohol for days?

Seems I have already told you how lousy I've been feeling. But this isn't me; I'm not the type to demand attention as some women do especially when they are chumming. They use their monthlies to excuse themselves from work, sex and their nasty behavior. The household comes to a standstill, the kids are banished from the bedroom and food is eaten in bed. Now that's cunning luxury but in my case its body ache, headaches, pillows bunched up against my back and moaning and groaning in the silence of my bedroom all the while hearing the squirrel making non-stop mating calls on the mango tree.

In my filthy feverish mind I've imagined shooting the squirrel, the cuckoo, the crows and the parrots that visit our trees and are terribly noisy. But imagining such as feast itself seemed tiresome. Thinking seemed tiresome. I just wanted to burrow deep into my pillows and try to make peace with my body with elusive sleep.

It is weird how we are able to face just about anything thrown at us by the world but then are easily broken when our bodies betray us.