'Look at the state of ya....'
'Like REALLY. REALLY. I knew you'd be in PAIN. But look at you. You are clearly in mind-bending, sense-of-reality-altering, absolutely crippling PAIN.'
'No, don't try and answer. I know that no matter how much you'd like to participate in the conversation, you physically can't even muster a whisper. I'll just keep talking at you, but I'll end each sentence with a question and an expectant silence and you can just lie there, frustrated out of your brains. Alright?'
'I bet you're lying there now, just thinking, god, this isn't half as bad as tonsillitis used to be...'
'I bet you're just lying there thinking, jesus, was this worth it at all hmm! Like, I bet you're lying there just staring at the ceiling that you've been staring at for the past week, trying not to let too much saliva build up in your mouth because swallowing it is so excruciating and you're just WISHING for ten cases of tonsillitis over rather than continuing with this soul crushing agony?'
'Would you like some of this snack which is delicious and also your favourite?'
'OOPS! FORGOT. You can't eat anything bigger than a morsel. I better take care of that so...'
' *munch munch munch* hm, for someone who's not eating, you're not really losing much weight, are ya?'
'WELL I BETTER GO! We've been doing loads of jam packed exciting and fun things lately. You're lucky really, that you can't participate. Sooooo exhausting having such a social life! But don't worry, you can read about them on Facebook later, yeah?'
'Oh, and Saucy, one more thing?'
'Get well soon?'
Get well soon? GET WELL SOON, YOU SAY? Well why didn't I think of that. Here I am lying in what would be a coma had it not been for the drugs they're relentlessly pumping into me, when all along I could have just ended it all by getting well, soon. Why didn't you say so! Thank you kind sir for your helpful request.
I was warned when I was getting my tonsils out that I was in for a very sore couple of weeks. Apparently, the older you get, the more traumatic the experience is. I had prepared myself after what the doctor had told me. What he hadn't told me, of course, was how I could expect to spend many of the early hours of the morning sprawled across the bathroom floor vomiting up blood in my own amateur production of Saw. Lying there resting my chin on the toilet seat so that most of the blood would fall neatly into the bowl, holding the door closed with my outstretched foot to lock out my hysterical mother, (''SAVE YOURSELF MAM! No human should witness this...'') praying that I wouldn't do an Elvis and die here. A copy of Twilight glared down at me menacingly. (Not mine, I swear...) Surely if vampires existed they would be here any moment. And if sharks walked the land I would be screwed. Or if there was a murder committed in the neighborhood and the police chased the culprit into our house and upstairs into my room and found me lying there in blood and the evidence was so damning they didn't bother with DNA tests....How would someone like me last in the big house??
I sulked staring at my gruesome lap. It's been a tough few days. My personal highlights include breaking out in hives from the medication and choking on a cornflake. The worst part about my disease though had been dealing with other people.
Like the person above, I can't even respond with what I assure you are my usual hilarious comebacks and witty quips. Woe is me.
It's always nice to have people come visit you. I like to just bask in actual human contact as I have been self-diagnosed with a very real, very scary case of cabin fever which requires an awful lot of sympathy - which I'm not getting. I wikipediaed the symptoms and I fit every single one, ladies and gents:
Symptoms include restlessness, irritability, irrational frustration with everyday objects, forgetfulness, laughter, excessive sleeping, distrust of anyone they are with, and an urge to go outside even in the rain, snow or dark.
You can imagine the absolute craic fest these symptoms create, with my disease. Manic laughter at episodes of Keeping Up Appearances & conspiracy theories about the dog, as well as being restrained from running out to put out the bins are just some select highlights.
So almost all visitors are welcome with manic, open arms.
However, events like these always draw random and distant relatives. The kind who are never ones to miss an opportunity to sit awkwardly in your living from hours on end, drinking all your tea and eating the fancy biscuits and making no conversation at all.
Normally, the familiar sound of them at the door, (greeting all my siblings by the wrong name but getting the dog's name right every single time) is my que to scramble up to my room and pretend I'm not there. But in my disabled condition I'm trapped, frantic and scared, on the couch in the living room. I'm forced to remain there for the duration - hours upon hours - of the visit.
This means I'm victim to my uncle's ha-ha-haaaaaLARious jokes.
Uncle: Well, you won't be kissing any boys now! Heh heh heh heh heh
Aunt: OH MARTY! Leave the poor girl alone! aHOO HOO HOO HOO
All: :D :D :D :D :D!!!!
Me: *must. shoot. venom. from. eyes*
Wrong on so many levels my dear relative. First of all, I've been left so bitter and inhuman by this treacherous disease that I couldn't scrape up enough warmth in my black heart to show any one any kind of affection to save Christmas. Kissing is certainly out of the question. Unless of course having your tonsils out was contagious. Then I could most certainly see myself raging through my local nightclub still in my hospital gown and attached to my drip going from person to person, snogging the face off them and leaving them on their knees in agony; screaming ''FEEL MY WRATH! FEEL MY WRATH!'' eventually managing to garner the empathy I deserve from everyone. But that's not that case.
Second of all, my lying here in my own sweat and dribble with my eyes rolling back in my head and as pale as cocaine like some kind of Snow Shite is never going to attract any young suitor to come in and smooch me. Unless they are a lot of young hunks with a fetish for girls who spend most of their time gargling their own blood and debating weather the shame of peeing themselves is worth the painful walk to the loo, in which case line them up.
Third of all, my parents and relatives talking about my love life still makes me blush and go 'Maaaaaam!!! You're SO embarrassing like'. This is never cool and I don't need these when I'm lying here on my potential death bed. (HEY! 1 in every 2,000 people who gets a tonsillectomy may need a blood transfusion! I'm so not exaggerating.)
Appropriate response: 'Haha! Yep well, apparently I can deep throat now sooo......'' That'll show them.
The Saucy Cow