Sick

I am sick. I am paranoid. This is probably the most sick I’ve been for a couple of years. Not hospital sick, just uncomfortably so.

When I was little I would get sick like this often. I imagine that it is much easier to catch a communicable disease when your immune system is fresh, shiny, and new and when you’re surrounded by unsanitary children. This will probably pass soon. Everyone else who caught this same ailment recovered in less than a week, so there’s not too much to worry about, at least not yet. Hopefully there won’t be any lingering effects from this.

The earthquake in Haiti has dominated the news lately. Just a few pictures here and there and scraps of video. IT’s all horrible. There was an image of the presidential palace shown in shambles and another showing the thousands of bodies strewn about the streets, exposed. A report read that one in three Haitians are affected directly by the quake (read: killed, injured, or rendered homeless), and this is of course not counting the thousands of friends and families who are in mourning. Events like this only strengthen my belief that either there is no god, or if there is, He is cruel and unjust. No one should have to endure this, not even the most wicked of people.

What bothered me was my initial lack of response. All this is going on and I still, for the most part, do nothing. When I heard about the Red Cross’ SMS-to-donate deal I hesitated. Did I really want to part with ten dollars of my own money Would it be worth it? What absurd questions! People are dead and dying and all I could think about was how this would affect my phone bill at the end of the month. Cannot be bothered, I guess. Within the next few minutes I capitulated to my guilt and sent the money, but still, I should freely and willingly want to help and give rather than having to be goaded into the most minimal of gestures by a guilty conscious. What really gets me is that I know I won’t change: simply put it is far easer being miserly than it is being giving. I feel like the narrator from Camus’ The Fall, confessing my sins and misgivings, only without the same sense of self-exoneration.

My girlfriend is here taking care of me while I’m sick. She got here last night and she’s sleeping next to me as I write this. Well, maybe half-sleeping. She’s not used to being up and about this early in the morning. It is nice to see her face resting; she gets such little sleep anyway, let alone being woken up every hour by a sick significant other. Her eyes and mouth are shut, her small hands reach to scratch her equally small nose. I think I like her.