Flat-Out Friday: Cough, Sneeze, Snickt!

I’m sick. Ugh. I have a head cold. My nose is running and my throat is sore. It’s gross.

I don’t get sick very often, which bodes well for how my immune system is coping with all this accident stuff. And since I was battling three very different infections in the hospital (thanks in no small part to all those people out there that don’t wash their hands), it seems my body is getting what it needs from my diet habits now to fight off most of what comes my way. I’m sure I picked this up at the YMCA, or on the bus, or at the hospital – any of the myriad of public places I visit on a weekly basis. But since I can’t very well avoid any of these, I’m taking this as a reminder to improve my fresh fruit intake.

Unfortunately, on the rare occasion that I do get sick now, I immediately turn into the world’s biggest baby. Of all the worst possible things that could happen, me getting sick is the WORST. POSSIBLE. THING. I turn into a full-on Rarity, wallowing in… whatever it is that ponies are supposed to wallow in. I can’t possibly do anything for myself, and end up eating cake for dinner because it’s made and I just need to find a fork. I call my mum and tell her I need her to make it better, which doesn’t go over well because she’s in Ontario and can’t really do anything about it anyways. But I still tell her she has to.

This is my mum. She’s magic, I tell you. MAGIC.

Because she has magical healing powers. Seriously.

See, when I was in the hospital generally getting my butt kicked by my broke ass and these persistent infections, I would get up in the morning, have breakfast, and go to physio. When I got back, my mum would always be there, waiting for me. I’d put my crippled butt in my wheelchair and we’d go out to the Tim Hortons in the hospital lobby for an iced coffee, half sweet. Usually, Mum would also get some breakfast, because she has this condition where she doesn’t eat until someone pointedly mentions it. Thank god it’s not contagious.

If it was a nice day, we’d take our drinks and do battle with the wasps outside so I could get some sunshine. We would talk as if I wasn’t in a yellow Infection Control jacket with two air casts on my legs and some seriously broken body parts. She’d make me forget I had nearly died and instead we plotted all the kinds of revenge I’d take with my insurance settlement, most of which had to do with going to Disney World and having a kick-ass wedding. She’d take me to the shower and help me bathe, brush my hair and braid it back from my face. And while she did all of this, I healed myself, not unlike Wolverine.

So, if she could do all that then, imagine what she could do when I just have a cold. The germs would fly out of my pores to get away from all the awesome. I could crush this thing like I had adamantium sinuses. Cold germs would be afraid to come near me for fear of being wiped from this earth. I’m telling you, if I am a superhero, then my mum is too.

Now all I need is for her to win the lottery so she can retire and make me chicken soup when I need it. I can’t possibly see how this plan could fail.


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