A strange name, I thought, for a disease that stretches on for so many weeks.
But it is solitary. Isolating. Isolated.
The fear of infecting someone else. The lack of energy to interact for more than five minutes at a time.
My days are mostly spent trying to sleep. And breathe. Tonsils and lymph nodes swollen, each swallow lingers like a deep cut on the back of my throat. Dehydrated from the pain of trying to drink, breathing through my mouth for too long leaves it sandpaper raw. But my nose is no help at all. Plugged continually. Never more than one nostril in use, I beg for oxygen with each inhale.
Maybe that’s why I’m so tired. Maybe that’s why I’ve become coarse and mean and hopeless most days. I can do nothing more than lay here and ask for help. The feeling is void, less than human, useless.
I’m told that eventually this will end. I should be on the upswing in another month, even though one has already been taken from me. I hope I can hold on.