SICKO MODE!

on being sick 🤒

Vaping In The Rain, Robin F. Francis (2019)

The word ‘convalesce’ is one of the most elegant sounds in the English language. I admired it before I knew what it meant, a love-at-first-sound kind of thing. Upon hearing it, I imagined someone stretched out, relaxing on a yacht rather than recovering in a hospital bed. It’s glamourous, really. 

Stemming from the Latin valescere, meaning to ‘grow strong or be well,’ I am not far off in framing the verb around vignettes of restoration and vitality. When I get sick, like I was this past week, there is often a fantasy of grandeur that accompanies my sluggishness. The leisurely sprawl in bed all day. The delicate slurping of warm soups. The avoidance of labour. It’s all very haute. I texted a friend, my ankles dangling over the bed, that I felt like a sick Victorian child. What I really meant was that I felt like Victorian nobility, prioritizing comfort over everything else. 

the LOOSEY urge to be the flyest sicko in the pharmacia…

How could I find pleasure in the discomfort of being sick? If it is to be believed that I am of two parts, a body, and a mind, my mind is the most active of the two, always tinkering, analyzing, and imagining. My body is often an afterthought, dissociative and lagging half a beat behind my thoughts like a second-born twin. But when I’m sick weird things happen. My body becomes the main character and my mind, lassoed in a gauze dopiness, becomes secondary. My body, at its loudest, plucks me from my meandering, catastrophizing thoughts, and tethers me to the present. In a way, I am more attuned to my needs when I’m sick. I am more responsive. I feel every grumble in my stomach. Every itch on my elbow or thigh is scratched the moment it appears. My cravings, be it food or something else, must be managed at instant. 

One night, earlier this week, I dreamt of drinking a delicious cream of broccoli soup. The next morning, I awoke with a desire to make the soup that appeared in my dream. Prior to the dream, I never thought of making cream of broccoli soup. In fact, I am allergic to dairy. Yet, there I was, at 8:54 a.m. in the aisles of a grocery store searching for onions, milk, and broccoli. My inner sick Victorian child craved it. And so, that’s what he got.

Other odd demands arose from my body that I submitted to:

• I opened a window because, at once, I felt too hot. Then I closed it, stripping down to my underwear, feeling simultaneously icy and ablaze.

• I guzzled a variety of fluids - coconut water, Vitamin Water, lemon water, water water - and flushed them down the toilet, watching my piss go from amber to fluorescent Hi-Liter to white freezie (my favourite). 

• I danced to Troye Sivan, which isn’t an irregular occurrence, but I, like, danced really hard to Troye, discovering new strums of piano chords my ears couldn’t locate during my healthier days, dancing so hard, ignoring the numbness of my joints as I gyrated around my apartment, and then felt sick, almost immediately, stomach bubbling, knees buckling as I trundled towards the bedroom with my arms stretched daintily as I collided into my duvet to finally be still. 

To offset the increased bodily hysteria, my mind moves slower when I am sick. It takes twice the time to write an email. I am less sharp with my speech. I don’t do that Brendon thing where I speak before I think. Instead, the slow lurch of a thought takes its sweet time to be processed by my dozy brain before it escapes through my mouth. I suppose most people would describe this as having a filter. 

The best part about having a slow brain is having better sleep. No overactive mind to keep me up. REM cycle on fleek. Naps galore. Deep dreams of what next I should fill my grocery cart with… It could be true that I become a better Brendon when sick. A more rested, thoughtful, present, hydrated Brendon. 

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If you’re not sick and looking for stuff to do in New York this weekend, check out coolstuff.nyc, a newsletter that showcases independent creators, designers & businesses while sharing diverse perspectives of a diverse city. They featured LOOSEY last week!

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The last movie I watched on a plane was Phantom Thread. The film illustrates the complex relationship between a haute couture designer and his muse. The designer, Woodcock, is maniacally detail-oriented about his work and his quest for perfection often ruptures his relationship with his muse-turned-lover Elson. Elson feels neglected in the relationship, playing second fiddle to the biggest love of his life: his fashion house. And so, Elson does what any lover would. She secretly poisons him with wild mushrooms so he is too sick to work. By making him ill, she obtains more time with him, nursing him back to health, and strengthening their bond. He grows to rely on her until he becomes strong again and eventually, they fall into the same sort of bickering that threatened to destroy their relationship in the first place. 

In the final scene of the movie, when it appears their relationship is unsalvageable, Elson makes Woodcock an omelette, adding heaps of poisonous mushrooms in stealth. I am not of the tribe that eats eggs for dinner so this would have immediately been sus to me but that’s not the point. Woodcock eyes Elson and studies the appetizing plate suspiciously. He forks the eggs and holds it to his face to inspect, eyes darting between the fork and Elson. He places the omelette in his mouth but doesn’t chew, gripping Elson in a fixed gaze. For a few uncomfortable seconds, it seems that Woodcock has caught on to her deceitful ruse. And then… he bites into the mushroom omelette and swallows. A smile sprouts across his face while Elson watches him with admiration. It appears that this is their kink: 

After he swallows, his muse reacts, speaking slowly. ‘I want you flat on your back. Helpless. Tender. Open, with only me to help. And then, I want you strong again.’

He responds ‘Kiss me my girl before I’m sick,’ acknowledging her poison and obfuscating it with romantic desire. 

As toxic (and hot) as this is, this dynamic - where he is ill and she is caregiver - is when their relationship is strongest. Elson nursing Woodcock back to strength, Woodcock convalescing, the valescere! The distractions of the mind, the daily tasks of life all fall by the waist side so they can focus on the most essential element of being: love. 

In a way, it’s how I’ve come to think about being sick. A discomforting poison that forces you to be focused on the present and happy with life’s small joys, like the ability to breathe out of a single nostril or the migrating colour of urine. An intense focus on the body that slows the distracting chatter of the mind. And, above all else, an excuse for cream of broccoli soup and mushroom omelettes. 

Be well soon, sickos.