Day 27: The Sashimi Survival Saga & Covid diagnosis

Last night was one for the medical history books.

Shivers, fever, headache, sore throat - basically my body had gone full “Windows is shutting down” mode.

I crawled into bed feeling like a tragic Victorian orphan and woke up with a throat so sore I’m convinced it was sandblasted in the night.

Swallowing was not an option.

Speaking? Only if you count groaning theatrically.

And of course - because my life is basically an experimental theatre piece - I was woken not by gentle birdsong, but by the sounds of a cat fight.

Not a mild disagreement.

Not a hiss and flick of the tail.

This was feline Mortal Kombat.

By the time I actually opened my eyes, I was already exhausted.

For a few brief, luxurious seconds I considered not going into work.

Then the guilt crept in.

The internal voice that says, “Pull yourself together, darling, you’ve survived worse - remember Brussels?”

So I dragged my limp carcass into some clothes and shuffled to the station.

At my desk, I tried to rally with my usual “amazing” protein bowl, except today it wasn’t amazing at all.

It was brown, joyless, and deeply unhelpful.

At 10 a.m., I tottered off to my private GP appointment - and there it was. The grand reveal. Covid.

Well, that explained the last few days of me feeling like a badly reheated lasagna.

Back to the office I went, doing my best impression of someone who wasn’t carrying a plague.

Quietly packed up my belongings and snuck out like a spy, avoiding eye contact so as not to infect anyone with my presence - although, let’s face it, half the office probably has it now.

We’re basically Zombie Outbreak: The Corporate Edition.

On the way home, I grabbed some lunch and hopped on the train.

Made it to my car, opened the door, and nearly died.

“Oven” doesn’t cover it - it was like stepping into the bowels of the sun.

My sashimi was on the passenger seat, and for 20 minutes I had to watch it contemplate becoming baked salmon with a side of cremated seaweed.

Somehow I made it home in one piece, although I have no actual memory of the journey.

Fever and brain fog had taken over, and frankly, I could have been driven home by a llama and not noticed.

Unfortunately, I had to work. So, I logged in, ate my still-raw salmon (praise be), and answered emails.

Attended a few meetings - or possibly hallucinated them, who can say?

At some point, I logged out, collapsed onto the sofa, and drifted off with the TV still blaring.

Covid, in this heat, is not fun.

Appetite still suppressed, even with my next jab due the day after tomorrow - along with a fresh estrogen patch, so that’ll be a glamorous moment.

Woke up when my lovely boyfriend came home and, in a rare moment of sound judgment, took some paracetamol with me to bed.

Executive decision was made: I’m staying here until further notice and yes, I am feeling sorry for myself.

Night, my jabbing friends.

May tomorrow bring fewer germs, cooler cars, and sushi that stays sushi.

With Love,

JABatha Christie