The second phase is the worst. It is here that you start thinking of the moments lost in life; the occasions that demanded celebration, but for the preoccupation of a healthy myopic mind. Life suddenly assumes meaning. I nourished no thoughts of my office in it. Not even in the remotest corner. Work had no place. I even started hallucinating about myself in a dystopian world. Then realised, it was not imagination. Just that I was thinking about myself in such a long-long time that it all seemed surreal.
I continued with my feeble attempts at diversions. Nurturing a thought here and there. Surprisingly, the only dream I remember having was about a colleague whom I had rarely spoken beyond an occasional greeting. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he had resigned just recently and seemed happy. He was free. I also wanted to be free. To escape the pain that I was in.
But, pain as I realised much to my dismay and helplessness, was slowly taking over. It is a feeling that hurts the mind more than it attacks the body. In the middle of the night a burning sensation flirted with my eyes. I went up to the bathroom and looked at the bloodshot eyes staring back at me.
For anyone in fever, using an icepack is the ultimate loss in the psychological battle. I stole another glance at myself and decided it was better to lose, for now. The icepack was a nice feeling. It caressed my forehead like a woman running her manicured hands through her beau's hair. I started to entertain a momentary illusion that icepack was the cure for my bruised ego and shattered health. The virus with its half-life had taken over my biological system. The gladiator in me was kicked out of its senses and hanged upside down.
Fighting the rising body warmth with a cool pack came with its consequences. I realised I was shivering even at the lowest speed of the ceiling fan, which was protesting against the terribly slow grind, by grunting and puffing over my head.
After an entire night's labour - changing the pack, boiling water before drinking and fighting the gooseberries - the fever subsided on an early morning, 72 hours after it had, crept into my body. It was gone in a jiffy, just the way it had arrived in the first place.
I realised this when I didn’t have to pop a Paracetamol tablet for the first time in 3 days. Eleven tabs had found themselves teaming up with my immune system in the days of my suffering. One after the other, every four hours; like ants lined up to perform their part in the scheme of 'greater good'.
It would be another 72 hours before I would be able to trust my legs to carry me throughout the day. But, with the free-agent gone, I felt liberated. I was hoping again. It seemed nature had replaced all my organs with new ones. Just like a spell of rain cleans the dirt off trees and buildings and makes everything look new and smell fresh. That feeling. Ah! What freedom to be relieved of pain.
