As of today, I’ve gone completely smell blind. My sense of taste has been significantly compromised for days now, and I fear that I will never be able to tell sour milk from it’s fresh counterpart again. As I’ve already had issues with judging milk freshness in the past and now require a thorough whiff test prior to every pour, this newfound olfactory loss may force me to forgo cereal altogether. I’ve been sick for such a great time now… I’ve long forgotten how things felt before the illness took over. I can’t remember the last time a meal tasted edible, or a stroll around the neighborhood didn’t bring about feelings of drowning. Mornings used to be greeted with simple disdain, now I dread waking up to a fresh blanket of tissues and misery. I fear my cold is not yet through with me. I try and fight the weakness, but standing cannot be separated from the strong desire to be seated again. Speaking clearly and without some sort of vocal interruption is a distant memory. Upon hearing me speak, those close to me are no longer asking if I’m ill, as they’ve grown familiar with my new rasp and altered inflections.
At times, the coughing subsides and I see glimpses of my former glory. Before hope can begin forming a smile on my face, the sickness returns with fervor and I am quickly taken over by even stronger attacks. I reach for the solace of a fluffy cat, but they are frightened by the startling coughs and rapid tissue consumption this illness has imposed on me. One attack, and my soft feline reprieve is nowhere to be found. Much to my despair, all of the creatures in my home now only look upon me from a distance. In the past, the look in their eyes exuded wavering affection and an urgent desire to be fed. Now they emit only disbelief and uneasiness, or at least that is my guess as they no longer allow me close enough to accurately gage their expressions. Sometimes, when they sleep, I can sneak a kiss on their head before they scamper away. For a moment, I am reminded of better times, times when I was able to move quickly enough to catch the kitties and force my love upon them.
Friends call upon me to join them in joyful gatherings, but I continue to be forced to decline with regret. I can handle very little now. I could not handle much to begin with, so attempt at any accomplishment is predictably futile. As for distractions, I have been forced to lower my standards, and entertain shows that were once deemed beneath me. I am afraid the illness is affecting my mind, as I find myself mildly enjoying the vapid programs more and more as the seasons progress. When I am not insulting myself with the idiot box, I have been spending my time learning great things through research and the scouring of articles. However, with my diminished brain activity, I have grown to expect little retention of this knowledge. With the growing pressure in my face and ears, I become more aware that there is little room left in my head for much else. It has spread to my throat and lungs, and I’m certain it wont be long before the congestion completely takes over. This is a slow, cruel decline. One that I would not wish upon my worst enemy.
My muscles now ache too greatly to continue bitching, and sleep is the only suitor left that calls upon me. In the event that I do not recover, I ask for a closed casket. I’m certain that even the most thorough embalming will not be enough to conquer this illness, and I don’t want contagions spreading through the air of my funeral to my loved ones and congenial acquaintances.
Woe. Woe to me. Woe Woe Woe.