As I become more aware of my body and my mind wakes up, I do the usual checklist. My throat feels scratchy and dry, my stomach muscles feel cramped from overuse, and my tongue feels completely devoid of moisture. I swallow a few times, hoping to get some wet going on in there, but I’m too dehydrated as of yet. I reach for my customary bedside glass of water, and find it empty except for a sip. I scowl at it, then drink the water like a shot. It barely quenches anything, even my parched tongue.
“Damn,” I mutter, and my words sound cracked, stale, and hard like week-old bread.
I’ve gotten in that habit over the past year of always leaving myself at least a sip of water. Even if I don’t remember doing it, during the night I’ll generally reach out and down some water to try to hold off the dehydration that always kicks the hell out of my body. But I know that, in the morning, I’ll still feel withered and used up. It’s a nice thought, but in the last few days, those remaining sips have gotten smaller and smaller.
The night sweats are getting worse. I breathe through my mouth more. I’m drinking more water at night to try to compensate. I know now, from experience, this probably means the sick is getting worse. Hopefully that isn't the case.
“Damn,” I say again, a little louder. My voice still sounds like wind blowing through a busted window.
I take a moment to assess the nausea. It’s not as bad as it could be, I don’t feel like puking or anything. Of course, once I get some food in me, it's anyone's guess, but I know I have to eat something. I still don’t feel like myself, but days of feeling like good ol' Berry are getting fewer and fewer. Nausea has little to do with that.
I glance at the clock. It’s 11 AM. Back when I was working a usual nine to five, I would have killed to sleep in this long. But now? I actually feel a little guilty. The sleep doesn’t feel nourishing, I’m going to bed too late as it is, and I get up well after everyone else is awake. It feels lazy. I feel like I should still be able to do the nine to five thing, even if I’m staying at home nowadays. I have to remind myself that this is okay. This is how I’m making life livable, and it’s good that I have this option.
This also means that I should get a call pretty soon to check in on me. I’m not entirely dreading it, but I’m also not sure what kind of report to give. I don’t feel terrible, but I could be better. The simple way of putting it is probably “no improvement.” That’s rarely comforting, though.
My head turns back onto the sweat and drool-drenched pillow and I sigh, hating the way my breath tastes sour. I could get up, go to the kitchen, try to attempt a piece of toast, or maybe just a little vegetable broth. My belly is already swollen though, and I have no appetite. Maybe just start with some water, then usual bathroom stuff. That should be enough for now, and I definitely feel thirsty.
As I sit up, I have to clutch my stomach as another wave of nausea-inducing cramping hits me. Even grabbing my gut doesn’t seem to do anything but make the hurt worse right now, but it’s still a natural impulse. It fluctuates a few times, then begins to die down enough for me to breathe again.
“I know,” I tell my stomach. “You don’t have to remind me.”
It gurgles, as if in response.
As if on frustratingly perfect cue, the phone beside my bed begins to drone. I let out an audible groan, then poise my hoof over the receiver. I clear my throat several times, trying to clear the sound of sick out of it, then swallow hard to help the nausea subside before I pick it up.
“Hello?”
“Hey there sunshine,” he says from the other end of the line. “How are you feeling today?”
I debate the answer once more, but it’s really the best option.
“No improvement,” I say with a sigh. “But, I mean, I’m not vomiting up blood or anything.”
“That's a start. Have you had anything to eat?” He sounds more matter of fact than actually concerned.
“Not yet, no. I will.”
“No fever, right? Have you checked today?”
“No fever.”
“What about fluids, are you able to retain any of it?”
Once upon a time, my phone conversations started with sweet nothings. I would call him cute nicknames, hit on him a little to see if I could make him blush. He’d tease me about something, I’d pretend to be indignant. There was a purposeful avoidance of the obvious questions: Did you get a full night’s sleep? Is the jaundice any worse? How’s your heart rate? Is the infection healing? Are you able to eat?
Now? Things have changed. We’ve reached that point where sick isn’t gross really, it’s just a part of life. We can discuss bowel movements, the color of specific mucus, particular types of pain and where they hit, and it’s just like talking about the weather. It may be intimate, but it also feels clinical. Not that it’s not nice to be honest about it.
I allow myself another sigh.
“I’ve been drinking water, but my urine is still pretty much brown. It’s hard for me not to sweat it all out, too, and my stomach is complaining a lot today.”
“Painful?”
“Yeah, muscle cramps and gas pain. Probably acid too.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah. Nothing stays in my body for long,” I mutter, then can’t help but laugh at a morbid joke. “Hey, at least when I feel healthier and you can come by, I’ll have slimmed down beautifully.”
He gives a wry consolation laugh at that.
“Would prefer you were able to eat.”
“Me too, but yeah. It’s not gotten any better. I just have to wait it out and-”
An unexpected wave of pain cuts me off. I feel acid rise in my throat. I go still, gritting my teeth and waiting for this to pass, as it always does. Why now, though? Why while I’m on the phone with him.
“Berry?” I hear him say after the silence goes on too long.
“One sec,” I strain out through a clenched jaw.
Again, we’ve done this enough times that he figures out pretty quickly what’s going on.
“Do we need to take you into the hospital? We could just to an IV, make sure you get some fluids, get some more anti-naus meds.”
“NO,” I practically bark as the pain begins to fade a little. “This is nothing new. It’s already going away, no hospital this time, okay?”
He’s quiet. I don’t put it past him to demand I go to the hospital for some meds. I even think he’d go as far as emotional blackmail and guilt tripping to make me go if he thought it was really necessary. Maybe that’s because I’d do the same to him if the situation called for it, or maybe I just think he cares that much. I’d be mad at him, even hate him for a little while. But I know that, if he ever did that, it would be because he wants me to be alive for as long as possible.
“Okay,” he says at last, and I breathe a wheezing sigh of relief. “But if it’s not better at all tomorrow, or if it gets worse, we make a doctors appointment.”
It’s a fair enough compromise, and less expensive than a trip to the ER again. I grumble, then drop my head to my chest in defeat.
“Fine, fine. But I really don’t think it’ll come to that.”
“I hope not.”
“Yeah, me too,” I say. “I mean, I could use a drink but…”
“Berry.”
“Bad joke, bad joke, sorry,” I say, not joking even a little. “So, how are you holding up?”
“Well, I miss you, but if you mean healthwise, I’m just fine. I could probably brave a visit if you’re up for it.”
“No way, buster,” I say in a good-natured growl. “I don’t know if this is all liver, or some combo of flu and liver. If it’s flu, that could put you in the hospital instead of me, and I’m so not up for that.”
It is nice that he offered though.
“Oh come on, I could stand on the other side of the door and read to you or something.”
“I still feel gross though,” I mumble, hating how much I want to say yes to that. “I need a bath. And I still need to try to eat. I could use more sleep too, if my body will let me. Anyway, I’d rather you see me once I’m all spruced up again. And it’s not worth the risk to you.”
I sound pretty logical, but there’s a certain desperation and panic behind my words. If my sick was ever to spread to him, I don’t know what I’d do. The idea that I could hurt him, just from an affectionate touch or kiss is devastating, and is one I’ve seen in ill-fated dreams more than once before. Even with a door separating us, his nearness to me would make me queasy, moreso than I am now. And I hate that part of me that begs him to come visit.
I miss him more than I can possibly say. So I don’t say it at all.
“I’m a big mare, I can take care of myself,” I say, doing my best to sound confident. “You don’t need to take care of me, or tell me how to take care of myself.”
“I still want to though.”
“I told you, I can handle this.”
I snap a little with those words, and I silently swear at myself for allowing the sick to cloud my mind too. I’ve been so grumpy. I’ve lashed out too much. I’m just so tired from even breathing or thinking right now, but that’s no excuse. I’m not me. I don’t like this pony that I’ve become.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter.
“Don’t be. Just take care of you.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“But still, date when you’re better?”
“Absolutely,” I say with a nod. “We can even plan it over the phone later, if you want. Could be a fun thing to do if work doesn't completely wipe you out. Speaking of work, I know they'll be asking for you soon.”
“I still have a few minutes.”
“Have you showered?”
“…Well no, not yet.”
“Then you don’t have a few minutes. Shoo, you’ll be late again.”
“Okay okay,” he says with a long sigh. “But only because you asked so nicely.”
“Sorry.”
“I was just teasing, no worries.”
I shut my eyes and try to keep myself from begging him to stop by. I don’t want to plead for him to call me more, not let me be alone, not let me go through the slow process of waiting out the sick by myself. But I cannot and will not be that selfish. I can take some small, muted pride in that much.
“I love you,” I tell him, and mean every syllable and letter of it.
“I love you too.”
“Have a good day at work, okay?”
“I’ll try, and you just focus on you.”
“Right.”
“Talk to you later.”
“Bye.”
I wait to hear his side of the line go dead before I set down the phone. I hate how pathetic I sounded. I hate this feeling inside me threatening to tear apart my organs, my stomach, my very heart. It’s hard to know how much of it is sick and how much of it is grief and anger over spending yet another day in bed or in the bath, waiting for the pain and gross to stop. I'm missing out on my already way too short life. Being sick will someday kill me, isn't that enough? Can't it let me enjoy the time I do have? I hate smelling like sick, hate my breath tasting like fermenting fruit. I hate this body. I hate this me that I have to be.
I let myself fall back onto the bed and shut my eyes. Sleep first, then food. It really should be the other way around, but the phone call has made me far too tired to deal with life. Just a few minutes, and I should be fine.
——
When I wake up and check the clock again, I find that three hours have passed. I offer another “Damn” to the ceiling, and roll out of bed to head to the kitchen. The nausea feels a lot better, but the muscles are still taut and strained around my stomach. Maybe I can brave a little food now.
As I pass the front door, I spot a piece of white paper sticking in underneath it. I pause, wary, and pluck it up in my hooves. On it reads a simple message:
Berry-
I thought this might be pretty easy on your stomach. I added some garlic. It’ll help you smell like vampire-repellant rather than sick. I love you so much. Please take care.
I miss you.
-Anon
I crumple the note in my hooves and crush it against my chest. I bite down hard on my lower lip and shut my eyes, trying to just focus and breathe the tears away. I haven’t cried today, an accomplishment, and I’d like to keep it that way. Still, even as I try so hard to keep my head level, I feel the warm liquid eek out from the corners of my eyes and snake down my yellowed cheeks. I can’t spare any fluids, I tell myself, sniffing hard to try to keep my nose from running too. I can barely keep water down, I don’t need to be wasting fluid on crying. I swallow a few times, and it subsides enough for me to open my eyes again.
With a breath whistled between pursed lips, as I count quietly in my head to ease my nerves, I open the front door. Sure enough, there’s a small container on my front step of white potatoes. One of the easiest things on my stomach, from experience, and something that has always made me feel a little happier in the past. He knows me far too well.
I snatch up my treasure and shut the door again. I’m not hungry, but the prospect of eating something he put time and care into makes me feel eager. I open the container at my table, and breathe in the pungent, inviting smell of garlic. It seems fresh, probably the real stuff rather than powder. I try to see if it smells at all of him, a scent I have missed this week, and am hoping I haven’t forgotten. Unfortunately, only garlic greets my nostrils. It’s still nice, but I find myself disappointed all of a sudden, angry at these damn potatoes. They’re a poor substitute for real love. But for now, they’re all I’ve got.
Against my hopes, my hunger has not returned at a sniff of this home-made delicacy, but at least I should be able to eat it. I lift my fork, stab a mouthful, and chew numbly before swallowing it down. It’s salty, nice, still warm, and hits my stomach like a soft cotton ball, hopefully absorbing some of the acid that threatens to overflow there.
As I eat, I remind myself that he made these for me. He loves me, and took the time to fix me a meal, even though I can’t see him. I haven’t kissed him, touched him, had sex with him, and been intimate with him in who knows how long. But he’ll still make me a simple meal when I’m sick. Even if I hate this me that I’m forced to be, he loves me. All of me. Even the sick.
The next bite goes down easier, more kindly. It feels more like a caress in some ways. In my mind I imagine him making this meal for me. I imagine him writing the note. I imagine his hands, peeling, washing, mashing, the way sweat would cling to his forehead with the effort. Effort he doesn't put out because he has to. But because he wants to. I never asked, I remind myself. I never demanded this. I'm not an obligation. I'm not a burden. This isn't about that.
He loves me. This is proof that, even as my health gets worse, he still loves me.
All at once, I feel a stab of pain in my stomach. I double over across the table, letting out a sound like a wounded cow. With shaking hooves, I stumble quickly to my feet, recognizing the horrible, sickening inertia in my gut, and launch myself towards the kitchen sink. The back of my throat tightens, I cough, and then the entirety of my stomach contents empties into the sink. My eyes water as I watch the few bites I’d managed, the little proof I had, wash down the drain and out of sight.
“Damn,” I say once more, and this time I don’t try to stop the tears from collecting in my eyes.
Maybe I am getting worse.
-End-
Author's Note
Being sick is rough. Being chronically sick is even more rough.
To ease your thoughts, I'm not killing off Berry Punch. I just wanted to show her outside of the romance, when the sick is actually taking a toll on her. Tragedy isn't all clean, pretty, sadly romantic interaction. Sometimes tragedy is messy, disgusting, crushing, and unescapable. I wanted to show what that part is like. In my eyes, at least, it makes the good times all the more worthwhile, and all the more bittersweet.
Hope you've all had a good weekend.
