Chikungunya and Me
By Eduardo N. Cordoví Hernandez
HAVANA TIMES – That illness has my respect, though not my affection. I have opinions—and afflictions—about our relationship. This ailment couldn’t present even one piece of evidence showing that I used aggressive measures to stop its progression, but even if I had wanted to, I couldn’t!
Going to the doctor was impossible. It struck me from the start with pains that didn’t even allow me to change position in order to fall asleep. Doing so was—and still is—at a cost in pain that no agreement, treaty, or negotiation, even the flimsiest artificial one, could reasonably justify.
Perhaps I could have used aspirin for the joint inflammation, but it was contraindicated. This disease shares several initial symptoms with dengue, for which aspirin is clearly forbidden, and the risks are deadly. So…
In reality, I never had a high fever. I should also say I don’t have a thermometer. There haven’t been thermometers in pharmacies for years—at least not in the capital, where I live. Maybe somewhere else…
Even if I had one, I wouldn’t be able to use it more than once. To bring the mercury column back down I’d have to make a superhuman effort. I thought that putting the tip in cold water might work. But I couldn’t test it in practice.
But in truth, I do have a thermometer. That’s why I know, more or less, that I never had a fever above thirty-eight degrees. It’s an industrial thermometer. It’s nearly sixty centimeters (two feet long). My readings were “more or less,” because this thermometer doesn’t hold body temperature. As soon as it leaves the skin, it drops back to ambient temperature.
So I would place it behind my knee, in the bend of the leg. Since not even with my glasses could I see the markings, I held a small LED flashlight in my mouth. Then I’d estimate by counting the little lines between the numbers to determine the value—an ordeal, because I had to bend down, keep the leg tight so as not to move the thermometer, and on top of that, many times—why wouldn’t it happen?—in the dark! Because having electricity when you need it can feel like a miracle.
I shouldn’t complain. Others had fevers above thirty-nine degrees C (102 F). But I can’t help it. The pain is unbearable when more than a week already feels like too much. Then someone tells you they’ve had it for over three months. And the outlook—according to some—is that the pain can persist for over a year…
Friends in the neighborhood who also live alone had diarrhea at night, without electricity, without candles, without running water in the pipes… So really, I shouldn’t complain. It could have been worse.
But entering my second week, I still can’t close my hands. I manage it with effort, but I can’t clench my fists. I go up and down stairs carefully… my ankles and knees hurt. Even so, I manage to walk briskly. I hold back because my neck, shoulders, and sternum hurt. I force myself to laugh and feel so ridiculous that I end up laughing for real!
Around ten in the morning, I go up to my workshop—something risky because of a vertical staircase. I sit at the door for an hour in the sun, in shorts, without a shirt, taking off my glasses and sandals as if it were a reward. Around five in the afternoon, I force myself to take a walk, and I feel better.
At seven or eight, when the power goes out, I go to bed. I wake up about three times during the night, aching. Until dawn arrives, and the future begins again.