Back home in my prison of convalescence once again and I am trying hard to stop acting the spoilt child, whining and feeling sorry for myself. Get a grip, woman. It's a virus. Yes, only that. That and all those tedious precautions that come with it. 

Of course I never wanted this part of my life at all. I don't welcome any of it. I could wail and scream, how unfair. Right now, I am not one these saintly people who gracefully and gratefully accept their fate and pretend it's all an opportunity for - seriously - growth. Oh, it is fun to pretend I am one of them when I feel healthier than today and I am the first to admit that I love the vocabulary: survival, blessings, mindfulness, embracing the shattered self, letting go...

It goes on and on until my mouth feels all sticky as if I've eaten too many sweets.

Well, I am done with growing. The only growth that's left here is growing old and that seems to be happening at a rapid pace. The drama of it. All in my head.

Honestly, I am my own worst enemy at times like this. I would even fight with the couch I am forced to lie on. Maybe I am just bored. Bored with this pretence of you look so well or - worse - you are such a strong woman. Stop admiring me, I want to shout out. But instead I smile, showing off my ability to suffer gracefully. This is the movie version.

And yet.

And yet.

There are a million of ways that it's possible to live a life. A delightful life. Even with an illness that came out of nowhere, unwanted, uninvited. (But of course, no illness ever is.) What choice do I have? Who said there was ever a choice, anyway?

The way I see it is that one of three things can happen. Things can stay the same, which is not ideal but it's manageable. They can get better, which would be great. Or they can get worse, in which case we can discuss it further.