I’ve spent the better part of the last week feeling like death served on a platter with two scoops of ice-cream. I can’t quite explain it but if I had the flu, I’d be glad because then at least I’d know what’s wrong and how to self-medicate. But instead, it’s a sick feeling; like I ate something dodgy, accompanied with an overwhelming sense of nausea.
I relayed this information to my cousin Melanie at a baby shower for a mutual friend. She immediately suggested that I could be pregnant. What is it with the word nausea and people’s predilection to assume it’s always related to pregnancy? And so I told her what I usually tell everyone is such instances: “If I’m pregnant then you better get a fucking manger and call The Three Wise Men, because you know Jesus is coming”.
But things didn’t get better as the day progressed and by late afternoon of the next day, I found myself suffering with a pounding headache. I didn’t take much note at first, but when the pounding began to feel like someone was nailing my head to a cross, I popped two painkillers. But alas, I was too late and was brutally attacked by the Mother of all Migraines that left me recoiling on the floor, fingers grasping at my head, humming to myself to ease the pain... a straight-jacket away from looking like some nutter in a madhouse.
Ever the fatalist, I wondered when death would envelope me. It’s not that I’m afraid to die, it’s just that I’m afraid of where I’m going to afterwards - the deep depths of the unknown. Then I wondered what the Angel of Death looked like... y’know, in case he showed up and I mistook him for the Postman or the Pizza Delivery Guy. I wondered if I would even see him, given that the severity of the pain had blurred my vision.
At some point I must have gotten up because through the tiny slits of my semi-closed eyes, I saw myself walking towards a white light. It illuminated my blurred vision and became brighter as I moved closer. And then I felt my forehead slam into the concrete lamp shade. Damn, no door to heaven for me.
I was soon rescued by my sister who poured hot water into a bowl with some eucalyptus oil and had me inhale the fumes with a towel wrapped over my head. And in no time, the Migraine subsided and I was put to bed with a few painkillers in my system.
I still haven’t recovered completely though. The nausea continues to linger, like a nightmare waiting to happen. And I refuse to see a Doctor. Searching for a good Doctor in this place is like looking for a Siberian Tiger. You know they exist, but they’re very rare and will be extinct soon. I’d much rather die than waste any more money on another useless git that can’t do anything for me - that’s just too happy to waste my time by diagnosing illnesses that I don’t have, administering tests that I don’t need or prescribing medication that I already have. Because we once had Doctors who genuinely cared about the welfare of their patients, now all they care about is how much money they can squeeze out of you.
For a brief moment, I wondered if my physical state of being was in any way related to my mental or emotional state. Not that I’m stressed or depressed, but one never really knows when it comes to the subconscious mind. It reminded me of something that I read recently on this blog. It was about an article written in the New York Times in 2004, about the loneliest whale in the world:
Scientists have been tracking her since 1992 and they discovered the problem: She isn’t like any other baleen whale. Unlike all other whales, she doesn’t have friends. She doesn’t have a family. She doesn’t belong to any tribe, pack or gang. She doesn’t have a lover. She never had one. Her songs come in groups of two to six calls, lasting for five to six seconds each. But her voice is unlike any other baleen whale. It is unique—while the rest of her kind communicate between 12 and 25hz, she sings at 52hz. You see, that’s precisely the problem. No other whales can hear her. Every one of her desperate calls to communicate remains unanswered. Each cry ignored. And, with every lonely song, she becomes sadder and more frustrated, her notes going deeper in despair as the years go by. Just imagine that massive mammal, floating alone and singing—too big to connect with any of the beings it passes, feeling paradoxically small in the vast stretches of empty, open ocean.
How beautiful. How fucking depressing. I really feel for this whale though. Life can be cruel to some and we’ll often find that people prefer Dolphins to Whales, in much the same way that they prefer Butterflies to Moths. We like pretty, deceptive things innit. No one wants the truth. No one wants something real. And so most prefer to live in the crevices of their minds, playing Jesus to the lepers in their heads.
But if only they could see... that those masquerading Dolphins are nothing but Gay Sharks in open waters. There’s so much we humans can learn from the animal kingdom.