It started off with a random bout of pretty high fever on a Monday evening and then waking up with red spots on my face the next day. As the day progressed, I developed more little spots all over my body and then... the next day, I had blisters all over my face. It was horrifying, I didn't want to look at myself and I didn't want anyone else to look at me - afraid of the passerbys leaving a wide berth around me. Granted I was actually highly contagious.
So it was on Melbourne Cup day of 2015 that I got diagnosed with chicken pox (which I dubbed it as birdie pox). I was quarantined at home for 2-3 weeks. It wasn't too bad, cause for the first few days I was feeling really sluggish. Reading, playing my games, reading, sleeping, eating, reading. I couldn't eat anything else but porridge.
Even then, I couldn't eat mushrooms with it and pork floss because my mother was afraid of the contents. Old folk's myth or something, but hey, I didn't want to take a risk.
I've been out and about now for about 2 weeks. Scabs have fallen off and scars remain. I don't know if it will ever go away (because it's a scar after all) but I surely hope it will because there are 3-5 marks on my face. I never did scratch it but I guess in my sleep I might have nudged it a little. I don't know.
November is coming to an end, and this is the last weekend before my mother arrives on Tuesday. We are going to Tasmania for a while the next weekend... and then for a week and a half, that'll be the last of it that I'll be spending in this house that I have lived for 4-5 years.
I'm sad, but there is hardly any other way. Or maybe there is, but all the plans have been made to leave. So I guess this is just about it.
I'm going back. At least, home is where my parents are.
I'm going home.
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