Ok hello there. I’m here, so I didn’t die. The procedure didn’t kill me, but the price did. Let’s just say what I paid can buy me an air ticket and accomodation for about a month in Paris. Almost wiped out what I saved for that trip clean. Any more and I would have to prostitute myself.

And then the verdict is out. Thank whoever is up there that it’s not a cancerous lump, but honestly, having TB is nothing to whoop about either. I hate how the whole thing makes me look so….. Plague-ish. First I have to fill in this fucking HEY I HAVE TB LOOK AT MEEEEEE fucking form so that the Ministry of Health can send an official letter to my home AND my workplace to congratulate me on getting this disease.

If all this doesn’t say “stay away from me because I might be contagious” in flashing fucking neon lights, I don’t know what else will.

The joker of my doctor told me some time before I paid the equivalent of feeding 200 hungry children that I’m not contagious because “you have no phlegm”. Fast forward to today and he gives me two weeks of medical leave because he found out my job nature AND tells me that after taking the two weeks worth of pills, my contagion level would be reduced to just 1%. Is he fucking kidding me???? And in case he hasn’t realised, I’ve been walking skipping jumping all around this country all this while. Then what? I wasn’t a threat before but I am now???

Then comes the solution. It comes in the form of five different types of pills totalling 12 each dose. Twelve fucking tablets to swallow every night on top of my OADs. Gotta be fucking kidding me. And these pills are each about the size of a fucking baseball. I drank half a bottle of water just to wash them all down. If this doesn’t give me water retention, nothing will. But wait, the best is yet to come. These two weeks are merely a trial to see if I react adversely to the pills.

Some things I have to watch out for:
● A severe rash reaction. Apparently if I start having mild rashes I’m supposed to fucking endure it. I can only stop if my entire body breaks out in angry red rashes comparable to the colour of a baboon’s ass.

● Yellow eyes or jaundice. Great. I might start looking less human and more banana. Just great.

● Pee the colour of iced tea. Sorry if I put you off iced tea for life.

● Loss of appetite. This would actually be great for me but apparently not.

● Painful swelling of joints. Just so I can prematurely feel what it’s like to be an arthritic old lady because I might be long dead by then.

● Blurry vision. Another perfect chance for all ugly men to step forward now. Do it now or be condemned when I can see clearly again.

I don’t get it. Some kind of brilliant solution this is. So many pills to swallow so many adverse events to look out for. Did I also mention there’s one particular pill that will turn my pee, stools and perspiration red? Goodbye to wearing white shirts because I’m a major back perpirator. Anyone wants to earn some quick buck? I could always pretend to be crying blood and be a bloody miracle. It might be easier giving birth. To a whale. Through a straw.

And if it all works out fine, I get to congratulate myself once again. Now I can repeat this 12-tablet diet daily for the next six months. Whoo-fucking-pee.

Of course I’m upset. I’m mainly upset because I’m not sure if I infected anyone close to me. How can I ever abate this guilt if I did? And even though TB is so much less of a stigma these days, I know people are scared of me and are slowly avoiding me. Didn’t you guys hear what Doc said? He says I’m not highly contagious. Hey come back!

Of course I cried. I cried till my eyes are slit-like. Not because I’m a coward, not because I think I’m going to drop dead any time but from the lack of concern and care and accusations thrown my way instead. That’s right, how can I ever forget that the world is a cruel and unforgiving place?

It’s a terrible time to be me these days. I don’t get rest when I’m sick, my customers keep calling for free samples, my sales figures are non-existent, one particularly mother fucker of a doctor called me a donkey and I don’t know what else. Throw it all my way won’t you. Might as well let me grow cauliflower on my face or something.

I’m so tired. I truly am. And yet I’m not allowed to crumble. Sucks to be me. And here, finally I lay down to rest.

Until the next asshole rouses me from my slumber.



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