Ideally, when I am ill, I stay in bed and cuddle my teddy bear, read a novel that is completely irrelevant to my study, or watch my favorite TV shows, all day long guilt free. I binge on my favorite hot beverage and whatever food I crave. When I am sick, I have my eyes on the subtle beautiful things that I generally ignore, like the late afternoon sunshine that light up the dusk in the air. Much similar to what Woolf wrote in “On Being Ill” with much more sophisticated diction:
We float with the sticks on the stream; helter-skelter with the dead leaves on the lawn, irresponsible and disinterested and able, perhaps for the first time for years, to look round, to look up—to look, for example, at the sky.”
In reality, most of the time that is, when I am sick I find myself without the energy to read or the appetite to eat, even drinking water becomes a task that takes tremendous courage because swallowing feels like tearing out flesh. I spend much time lying in the bed, in a limbo like state, with just enough consciousness to feel the pain, which prevents me from falling asleep. At first, I try to let my immune system fight on its own and avoid taking unnecessary medications. However, after some time, I most likely will shove down a bunch of pills just hoping to get better as soon as possible. If my condition is so serious that I need to see a doctor, I generally do some research on the internet about the course of treatment, so I have a better understanding and some preparation of what the doctor is going to throw at me. This, perhaps, is not such a bad idea. After all, possibly more than two hundred thousand people die because human errs. Better to be safe than sorry.