Day 30/31/32/33: I Saw the Light (Twice) and Still Came Back for Paracetamol

Aug 18
2 min read

Apologies, my darlings, for going radio silent for four whole days.

I know, unforgivable. Normally I’d never vanish without at least a cat butt update, but trust me - I was and still am far too busy trying not to die.

Friday:

Things went from “mildly annoying” to “biblical plague” faster than you can say Lemsip Max Strength.

Fever.

Shivers.

Sweating like I was running a marathon in a sauna while someone threw jalapeños at me.

My head was pounding so hard I swear I could hear tiny construction workers inside, jackhammering through my brain.

Then the earache.

Then the jaw ache.

Then the everything ache.

Basically, if it was attached to my body, it was auditioning for the role of “most painful.”

Food?

Forget it.

I couldn’t even look at a slice of toast without gagging.

Nothing to do with my jab - this was some sort of otherworldly virus, possibly a new mutant strain called Sloth Flu, or maybe the first recorded case of Possessed-by-a-Shadow-Monster Syndrome.

Saturday:

Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, the universe said, “Hold my paracetamol.”

I spent the day either shaking like a chihuahua in a snowstorm or sweating like a pig at a sauna convention.

My entire existence became a cold towel on my forehead, the occasional sip of water, and muttering to myself like I was auditioning for The Exorcist: Domestic Edition.

Honestly, I almost called a priest.

Not even for the virus - just to make sure I wasn’t hosting a demon named Trevor in my cerebellum.

Sunday:

WORSE THAN SATURDAY.

Which I didn’t think was even possible.

At one point, I was convinced I’d died, gone towards the light, and then reversed like, “Nah, not today babe."

My brain was soup.

My body was betrayal.

My spirit animal?

A rotting potato.

I don’t remember much except endless sleep “for England,” broken only by my boyfriend checking in, looking worried, while I alternated between dramatic deathbed sighs and begging for more cold flannels.

Bless him - he deserves a medal.

Honestly, if he sticks around after seeing me at my feverish, sweaty worst, then he’s either a saint or he’s locked into this relationship by a very dodgy contract.

Monday (Day 33):

Slightly less fever, but still firmly in the “please, someone, unplug me and plug me back in” category. Surviving on fluids, paracetamol, penicillin, and sheer bloody-mindedness.

I’ve lost entire days of my life.

At least two near-death experiences.

And possibly some brain cells.

I never admit to being ill - I’m usually more of a “walk it off” girl.

But this time?

This time the virus said: “Sit down. Shut up. And sweat in silence.”

So here’s my PSA:

Look after yourselves. Because whatever Shadow Monster possessed me this weekend is still lurking, and I don’t want any of you to end up starring in your own fever-horror trilogy.

With Love,

JABatha Christie

Apologies, my darlings, for going radio silent for four whole days.

I know, unforgivable. Normally I’d never vanish without at least a cat butt update, but trust me - I was and still am far too busy trying not to die.

Friday:

Things went from “mildly annoying” to “biblical plague” faster than you can say Lemsip Max Strength.

Fever.

Shivers.

Sweating like I was running a marathon in a sauna while someone threw jalapeños at me.

My head was pounding so hard I swear I could hear tiny construction workers inside, jackhammering through my brain.

Then the earache.

Then the jaw ache.

Then the everything ache.

Basically, if it was attached to my body, it was auditioning for the role of “most painful.”

Food?

Forget it.

I couldn’t even look at a slice of toast without gagging.

Nothing to do with my jab - this was some sort of otherworldly virus, possibly a new mutant strain called Sloth Flu, or maybe the first recorded case of Possessed-by-a-Shadow-Monster Syndrome.

Saturday:

Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, the universe said, “Hold my paracetamol.”

I spent the day either shaking like a chihuahua in a snowstorm or sweating like a pig at a sauna convention.

My entire existence became a cold towel on my forehead, the occasional sip of water, and muttering to myself like I was auditioning for The Exorcist: Domestic Edition.

Honestly, I almost called a priest.

Not even for the virus - just to make sure I wasn’t hosting a demon named Trevor in my cerebellum.

Sunday:

WORSE THAN SATURDAY.

Which I didn’t think was even possible.

At one point, I was convinced I’d died, gone towards the light, and then reversed like, “Nah, not today babe."

My brain was soup.

My body was betrayal.

My spirit animal?

A rotting potato.

I don’t remember much except endless sleep “for England,” broken only by my boyfriend checking in, looking worried, while I alternated between dramatic deathbed sighs and begging for more cold flannels.

Bless him - he deserves a medal.

Honestly, if he sticks around after seeing me at my feverish, sweaty worst, then he’s either a saint or he’s locked into this relationship by a very dodgy contract.

Monday (Day 33):

Slightly less fever, but still firmly in the “please, someone, unplug me and plug me back in” category. Surviving on fluids, paracetamol, penicillin, and sheer bloody-mindedness.

I’ve lost entire days of my life.

At least two near-death experiences.

And possibly some brain cells.

I never admit to being ill - I’m usually more of a “walk it off” girl.

But this time?

This time the virus said: “Sit down. Shut up. And sweat in silence.”

So here’s my PSA:

Look after yourselves. Because whatever Shadow Monster possessed me this weekend is still lurking, and I don’t want any of you to end up starring in your own fever-horror trilogy.

With Love,

JABatha Christie

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