June 24, 2010
Andrei fell victim first. After two feverish nights in bed (and mind you, not from newlywed extracurricular activities), he causally passed by the medical center on the way to work to get tested for malaria. When the results were returned with an astronomically high count of parasites in his blood cells he was casually informed he would not be making it into work that day, would be held for 24 hour observation (or beyond as the case proved to be), and an IV was swiftly inserted into the most convenient vein his body had to offer. I found him in one of the two admittance beds drowning in a sea of thick wool blankets. And there he remained for the next three days, sometimes more visible than others depending on his respective level of sweats. Somewhat on the mend or at least able-bodied enough to entertain visitors, we all shuddered when a dear friend stopped by to remind us that not everyone recovers from this disease. Right, thanks.
According to his parasite count, his case was much more severe than mine, according to whining and complaining, my case was definitely the more severe of the two. And just when I thought the puking and the nausea would never subside, that the pounding in my head would never stop, that my eyes would never uncross, that I would never be able to see without tunnel vision again, that I would never be able to arrest the seemingly unbreakable cycle of sweats and shivering and teeth chattering, I eased into a night filled with actual rest and awoke with a clear head, normal body temperature, and no dizzyness. Thank you pharmaceutical industries and tropical medicine doctors.
Thousands of dollars later in top of the line medical treatment, we have realized that good health is priceless. Well, almost.