And so this entire week passed in a haze of coughing like I was trying out for tuberculosis patient role in ancient Hindi Film which used to have storylines, one of those side characters who die dramatically much like the scene where a really scrawny Raza Murad passes out with a rotund and cherubically cheerful Rajesh Khanna singing a really philosophical song which passes over my head…anyway, you get my drift. The left eye ballooned out to obscene levels which then meant I couldnt put in them contact lenses, so all pretences at vanity went for a toss too. Given that with every hacking cough I was spitting up phlegm and, horror of horrors, fresh red blood, I could have even auditioned for a role in Dracula Returns. Yes, I was at my smashing best all last week.
Yes, yes, spent the past couple of days being poked and prodded and Xrayed and blood tested till there is absolutely no blood left in the body, but apparently I can now put the pen aside and let that will I was writing out, with great care for clause and sub clause, and the pondering over intensely over who should get my sole pair of kickass Choos, and who would get my favourite bags, my favourite gold bling Guess, my Fendi, and how I would be mean and nasty, and like the really stupid ad with the sidey characters, will everything to the maid. And then hover around like a fly on the wall during the will reading to note disappointed faces, given that none of them jeans will ever fit anyone I know given they’ve been altered and stretched beyond decent logical sizes. Never mind if they cost an arm and a leg. My book collection, the rest of my clothes, my watch and sunglasses collection. Dammit, I do have a lot to will away in non essentials. And of course, my minsicule collection of jewellery which I would rather give to charity. Seriously, though, it was, in troth, a liberating experience, I recommend it to all and sundry. Write out your will. You will realise how you actually have nothing to really hold onto except perhaps your spouse and your children.
And of course, given my penchant for high drama, the very melodramatic questioning of the child as to whether one would be missed should one be not around, to which said fruit of the womb replied cheerfully, “No.” Which promptly shut me up from further melodrama, and got me right back to threatening an immediate nasty spanking should he continue to roll around the floor and not write out his alphabets as decreed mandatory thanks to reams of weekend homework.
But, the result of the gadzillion tests show that apparently all the horrific possibilities of life threatening diseases have been ruled out, and the husband has some more time before he can dance on my grave, and chase all the skirts he wants. Nothing more serious than a minor blood vessel being ruptured in the windpipe due to racking cough, which accounted for raw painful throat, and lack of ability to ingest solids. Which of course, one circumvented beautifully by finding the sort of foods that are amenable to ingestion in mashed pureed state, never mind the calories. Therefore mashed potato with butter and pepper came back into favour. Pastries too. I was sick. I need the health benefits of added calories. And all the comfort food you can think off. Specially, the ones which require no chewing and just simple swallowing. Chicken soup. Yup, corn starch laden type.
I am not even getting me near any weighing scale till the cough disappears. A sick woman’s gotta nurse herself back to health.