In a way there's something that feels good about being unwell because I can say I'm unwell and I can feel like a baby and I can expect some level of sympathy and coddling that is missing in the rest of my life, when I'm all “physically healthy” and gross stuff like that. There can be a strange bittersweetness to being sick.
Don't get me wrong though, I'm not about to suggest we should all start looking on the bright side of illness or something. No, I hate being sick. It's unpleasant, it's painful, and it's downright scary sometimes. If you're anything like me, the dullest twinge will remind you of your own mortality and you'll be wondering if a stray itch means you are about to drop dead. Cheerful, right?
I say all this because I've been having mad headaches lately, and they've been making me feel like an actual useless baby. You know, like all those selfish babies who are lying around, doing nothing for society, laughing cruelly at shop assistants and screaming at innocent ducks. That's like me, but marginally larger, with a head pain, and using a copy of The Guardian as an emergency handkerchief.
I long for the day when we robotically eradicate illness with engineered immune systems made of emeralds and Pierce Brosnan's tears, although I hope when this glorious future arrives I will still be allowed to lie down and wail for long periods of time and demand garlic bread and cats.