I've been sick, which is not something I'm used to. I mean, not really.
I am familiar (hand-in-hand, skipping-through-the-field familiar) with hangover sick. I know first-thing-in-the-morning sick, I know dehydrated eyes and slack tongues and a fear of facing the world. I know you-don't-brush-your-teeth-enough, your-gums-are-bleeding sick and ate-all-the-bad-Vietnamese sick and third world travel dyspepsia. Thick head colds to tease out with steaming lentil soup rife with garlic. Cat-claws in the back of the throat. Shivery sweats making Rosarsch patterns on the bedsheets. But...
I've not been hospital sick before and this week I was because my appendix exploded. I ignored it because I have an innate and foolish belief that most all illness can be cured by solitude, quiet, herbal tea, and soup. I figure if I stop taunting my immune system with sleeplessness and espresso and whisky when it whines, then it will take heed and sort me out. Unfortunately not.
Anyway, I will be at home for a while convalescing and writing, propped up in bed with too many pillows, affecting a wan 19th-century-heroine expression (instead of going to Bestival and dancing around like a loon). I plan to write an essay about pain and edit together some delirious night-sweat notes into something poemlike, and see how my body reacts to a week off the booze. I may also eat large quantities of ice cream, particularly this one.