Guess what: I had dengue fever.
Does that sound terrible? That’s because it is terrible!
It started off like a bizarre sensory issue that slowly crept on me one afternoon on the beach in Tahiti. The sand began to feel rougher, like it actually hurt the soles of my feet. From then on, all hell broke loose in my body. My lower limbs became extremely sensitive. Water, air, my clothes—everything just felt weird against my skin.
What followed was a series of sleepless feverish nights and the invasion of a feeling of exhaustion so shattering that it made me wonder if this was how I felt when I got COVID. This must have been worse. At least with COVID I could force myself to go out on a short walk. This time, I could hardly make it to the bathroom.
My appetite vanished altogether, replaced by disgust over foods I had raved about only days before. Canned spinach suddenly turned bitter, fried eggs were bereft of flavor (and dealing with the sole texture was quite daunting). The mere thought of an omelette was absolutely repulsive to me.
One particularly cruel aspect of dengue was how thirsty it made me, while at the same time rendering water sickly sweet in my mouth. After much mulling over (because turning in bed toward the nightstand in order to reach for the water bottle was already in itself an ordeal), I couldn’t bear to drink more than a tiny sip at a time, because I couldn’t stand the taste. I was seriously parched, but I just couldn’t bring myself to take a big gulp. Even as I’m slowly regaining my strength, I’m approaching the water bottle with caution.
Although the symptoms appeared to relent the day we flew back, I almost fainted on the flight to San Francisco—it was not my first time passing out, so I tried to ease myself into it, hoping to eventually emerge unscathed on the other side. I did not lose consciousness, but did have two episodes of diarrhea and threw up once. I begged for water, but the flight attendant said I’d have to wait. (He then brought two glasses of water instead of one, so he did take some pity on me.) I shuffled in my seat but found it impossible to fall asleep. The remaining flight time indicator on the screen became unbearable to watch.
Coming back home offered little solace, except for the reassurance that I would now get the blood tests the doctor in Tahiti ordered when the fever did not subside overnight as I hoped. I spent Christmas and New Year sleeping, or rather, trying to sleep. I tossed and turned in bed, or at least tried to, or at the very least grappled with the need to do so to take a sip of nauseating water. Every few minutes I was awoken by a thirst that was never to be quenched.
When I finally regained the ability to sleep, I started dozing off at random moments throughout the day. Thankful that January is usually a slow month, I just let my body do what it needed.
After so many days without food, it was to be expected that I’d lose weight. Certain clothes of mine suddenly fit better, but that was nothing to rejoice about. So much of my strength was gone. I still can’t open jars, and things slip out of my hands because I’m so weak.
Doctors (my uncle included) have told me this is a mild case, but if that is so, I do not want to imagine what a serious case looks like. They have warned me, though, that I cannot contract dengue fever a second time, because that will be much, much worse. At any rate, I’m just patiently waiting for my body to finish this battle. When I can finally take a long walk at a decent speed, I’ll be the happiest person in the world.