Everything is still.
After weaving in and out of sleep, moaning, cursing the anti-histamine, twisting in my sheets, jabbing at my phone to distract myself--all at once I am calm. It’s midnight and everything is still. Something about the fullness of silence makes find the strength within myself to accept my illness. This is the sickest I've been for the longest time but soon I will recover and get out of the hospital.
The room is half-lit: only one of the two fluorescent lights are on, and the semi-darkness suits me. I touch the rashes on my skin and thankfully it's not so bad anymore. It's a miracle. Because every single day for the past week I have helplessly dreaded the onset of rashes late in the afternoon or early at night.
I dread the shots of Benadryl that burn my veins. The first time they injected me with the medicine I felt like I was going to pass out. It was as if there was not enough oxygen in the air and it was difficult to breathe. My body felt heavy and I thought I didn't have the strength to move. But by some force I was able to bring myself to the restroom to throw up. I told one of the doctors that Benadryl makes me vomit but he simply told me I may have associated it with nausea since I puked the first time I took the medicine. He did not seem worried but they never really do. I guess I'm sensitive to the drug. I would feel sedated a minute after taking it intravenously. Although my thoughts were clear, it would take some effort voicing responses when someone is talking to me.
When the effect of the Benadryl wears off, the itching starts all over again. At any rate, I need to discipline myself and ignore the itching because when an area of skin is scratched, that same area becomes even itchier, leading to more scratching. It's an annoying cycle.
The doctor where I work at said that I had Stevens–Johnson syndrome, which is a fatal allergic reaction to drugs and microorganisms. I literally did not believe him. But I followed his advice anyway and had myself admitted to the hospital.
There is no official epidemiology yet, but now more than ever I am certain that whatever allergy I have is not life-threatening. Still, it's almost disappointing how I could not help the doctors figure out the cause of my allergy. I could not accurately recall what I ate the day before the rashes appeared. It's odd, I suppose, that my sharpest memory should be how I felt the night before being sick. I clearly remember being too sleepy to eat supper. I went to bed early. I was irritated by the bed sheets and the clothes that I was wearing, as if I wanted nothing but silk to touch my skin.
I am grateful that I am in much better shape right now than I was five or six days ago when I was feeling so horrible that I was in tears. I must be on the healing track. Or am I merely getting accustomed to the itching? I know that habituation can make physical symptoms bearable.
Could I finally be healing?
It's midnight and I am calm. Lying in bed, I look up at the ceiling. I stare at the IV and every drop of dextrose, as if in a trance. I am intensely and sharply conscious of my being, of everything surrounding me. Yet, strangely enough, I am equally aware of feeling separated, unattached. I feel suspended, yearning for the next day to come. How many more seconds? How many more minutes? Hours? Until I'm finally sure my body is healing...
