This week I have been broken by illness. And let me tell
you, as a French (okay former French) this means a lot. Members of the French
family do not get ‘ill’. They feel slightly less awesome, take some Tyelenol
and move on. They do not let something as silly as an illness affect them. This
would be weak. We are not weak. We are strong. During my five years of teaching
in England (yes Grandma, it has been five years instead of the promised one,
something I am forever being reminded of) I have taken one day off work for
illness. One day. This week I completely shattered my almost perfect attendance
record. I have not left the house since Tuesday. This is Saturday. It turns out
the French mantra of “You’re not ACTUALLY sick” doesn’t always apply.
This is the progression of my illness (another thing the
French family loves is a good, detailed description of anything less than nice,
the more disgusting the better).
Saturday: “Hmm, my skin feels weird. I must drink more
water, drinking more water fixes everything.”
Sunday: “Andrew if you come near my skin I will kill you.
Literally kill you. Don’t even think of touching my skin. Everything hurts!! I
must drink more water, that will help.”
Monday: “Weird, red patches. Nothing a French can’t handle!
And those feelings of wanting to puke every 20 minutes are easy to ignore. To
distract myself I will pretend I am a frog and play frog tag with the
children.”
Tuesday: “Awesome, the patches have grown and now stretch
around my body. Lovely, I have just woken up and I already feeling like
garbage. That’s fine, there is only a week and 4 days left of work, only a weak
person would admit defeat. Today I shall just walk slightly less like a drill
sergeant to work to let my body have quiet time before I roll on the ground,
jump through hoops (literally) and then teach long division.” 2 hours later….
“Okay, feeling dizzy. And pukey. Will. Not. Admit. Defeat. I can teach division
from a sitting position! It’s all about compromising with your body!”
Tuesday afternoon: Call my Grandma for sympathy, “Alicia, it
sounds like you have shingles. Go to the clinic.” “No, we Frenches don’t go to
the clinic. We are tough.” Call my mother for sympathy, “Alicia, stop being
like your father. Go to the clinic. Go now. GO. NOW.” Clinic nurse, “You have
shingles. It’s going to get worse. No treatment for such tough, Navy Seal
French family members like you! You can suffer through it using all of your
experience of suffering!” (Okay, that may have been a slight
exaggeration).
Wednesday: “BAHHHHHHH!!
LOOK AT MY BODY! I AM A HUMAN SNAKE!!” Andrew- “You’re not going to work.”
Alicia- “It’s fine, as long as I take a taxi, move slowly,
sit all day, nap at lunch and no one touches me all day long I’ll be totally
fine!”
Andrew- “You’re not going to work.”
Alicia- Pouty face.
Andrew- “If you go to work you’re going to end up looking
like a human snake on our honeymoon.”
Alicia- “I’m not going to work.”
Thursday: “THE PAINNNNNNNN! It can’t possibly get worse!!
The blisters can’t possibly grow any larger! Now I look like a zombie snake!!!!”
Friday: “ARGHHHHH!! It hurts ten bazillion times worse! The
blisters are growing!!!!! Now I look like a zombie snake with a sunburn!!!”
Saturday: “AHHHHHHHHHHH!! They have turned PURPLE!! Purple
hurts more!!!! Purple is the colour of pain!!!!! Now I look like a nasty
blistered Barney/Teletubby zombie snake!!”
Conclusion: I thought I was tough. I am not. Shingles are
stronger than me. Shingles can break even the strongest of the Frenches!
Note: I would have attached photos as I think the blisters are incredibly awesomely nasty but for some reason I have a feeling that everyone else may not feel the same way. However, I have been updating my nearest and dearest with daily blister updates photos. How lucky are they?!?!?!?
No comments:
Post a Comment