Things

I have been out of commission for the past four days with a very bad case of silly-weak-American-in-a-foreign-land syndrome. In addition to all the usual trappings of traveler’s sickness, I had two glorious nights of fevers. Being delirious was interesting enough, as I unsuccessfully tried to fight off the waves of confusion that drowned out lucidity before succumbing to fever dreams. That cold feeling though- that you can’t escape because it’s emanating from inside you- that was bad.

They ended up shipping me to the Suni Hospital for an overnight glucose IV to counteract my uberdehydration. Listening to the doctor disdainfully diagnose my condition as fatigue before running off to treat real people with real illnesses was pretty embarrassing. Calling the director of my program to pick me up the night I got back after I snuck to an internet café and subsequently realized I had neither the strength nor mental capacity to find my house was downright mortifying.

On the upside, this current period of oscillating between sickness and health has given me the luxury of an excess of free time, which I have been using to write these thoughts and experiences. It’s not as much fun as having new experiences, but it’s almost as valuable. Memories are such slippery things. You can’t always access them later. Sometimes, they disappear into the folds of your mind, and only come out again if something sets them off. The thought of memories, for instance, always causes me to think about that time we found baby rabbits in our backyard after the neighbor’s bastard dog had killed their mother, and fed them with eyedroppers and gave them to The Grove. That memory is a keeper, because it’s forever linked to my thoughts of oft-forgotten memories.

The tangled web of love and pain and competition and embarrassment and manipulation and bitterness and hate that was my life as a high school debater has been compressed, squeezed, blocked out, and otherwise twisted beyond recognition. It’s usually little more than a blurry haze. But I still have that book, where each debater wrote a page at the end of camp. And the entries, or even the thought of the entries, sets off a zillion different firecracker memories of mattmaliawhopretendedtolosehisglassesintheraincuzhethoughtitwouldberomanticnickandjoshzloofwhosaidhebrokeupwithhisgirlfriendcuzoncehemetmeherealizedshewasntthatcoolmeatthekarmelsutrastoreandmestealinghisscarfbeforeweweredatingconniesmokingwiththelifeguardwhoknewiwaswearingabarnotaswimsuitkatandicrackedoutwritingourbiodiversityfilerejowhosaidhedneverforgetaboutmemikemaffewhoboughtthatvalentinesdaytiefrisbeeatcatholicfootballattheswingtheandrewshelpingmecleanmyroomandfindingthebrushisleptonfortwomonthsmaggieahnthinkingthewayiflowedwascutemethinkingjoanwasprettydebatingdanallenandtameemniceestteameverbensolowandbaseballthemostamazinggameofmylifeandmattwallaceandbaseballbeforehedecidedhehatedmeandhadthechancesarahwillbreakmyheart100%awaymessagescaroandhercrazypalaceinmiamimakadathehotlyingbrazillianfilesalloverthefloorwithnataliethePRESSureisAHNirenedesigningmywallformybirthdayandhuggingmeawkwardlywhenigotoutoftheshoweronlineconversationswithamilliondifferentpeoplefromfiftydifferentstatesaboutthesamefiveorsixthingsbutitwasalwaysinterestinganditalwaysmattered and god. So many people who mattered so much to me once. Even if they don’t matter anymore, they shouldn’t be forgotten.

I think I had a point that was related to India. But it has drowned in that stream of consciousness.