Dengue Part 2

The last time I had dengue was when I was seven years old and I celebrated my birthday at the hospital. You still made my birthday a success by bringing in three cakes and balloons and all those Snoopy and Ninja Turtles sketches at the Children's Hospital. Lola Portia even brought that battery-operated doll just to distract me from the fact that I had a dextrose attached to my hand.

And yesterday you concluded that I was hit by dengue again.

Each minute was a torment. It took you thirty minutes to arrive home and all I could do was count the seconds. And each minute was painful. Too painful that I was drifting with a throbbing temple and each last message I sent to you was all I could think of, counting the syllables

"Ma, yayay."

At least I got hit when I am staying at your house. Otherwise, I don't know what else would happen if I were alone and my knees and back hurt while I was chilling in bed.

Only a mom knows what to do, skillfully not wasting any time giving what is needed.

My nurse and doctor. 

My mom.