About the Time I Was So Ill and So Alone

There’s a very specific kind of humiliation that hits when you’re 33 years old, independent, strong, allegedly mature —
and then you get dengue. And realize you are, in fact, not okay. And maybe, just maybe, you need your mum.

This is my story.
A horror tale. A cautionary tale. A fever dream, literally.

It started like any regular tropical nightmare.
A mosquito bit me.
Probably while I was outside being smug, barefoot, or otherwise carefree.
I didn’t even feel it. Which, honestly, rude.

Five days later, my body turned into a crime scene.
I was sweating, shaking, freezing, and hallucinating about soup.
I thought I had the flu. Maybe COVID. Potentially influenza.
But no.
It was dengue.

And I?
I was dying.

Like not hospital-level dying (yet), but "every cell in my body is screaming and I want someone to hold me while I cry into a wet washcloth" level of dying.

So there I was.
Alone in my house.
Unable to stand for more than 12 seconds.
No food, but also no appetite. No clean clothes, but also no strength to change. No energy. No dignity (but that one has been gone for a while).

And here’s where it gets really dark:
Not. A single. Friend. Showed. Up.

No “do you need groceries?”
No “can I drop you off some soup?”
No “hey bestie how’s your blood platelets?”

Nothing.

I could’ve fully died and my cats would’ve eaten my face before anyone noticed.

At one point, delirious and starving, I thought about boiling pasta.
I say thought because I genuinely didn’t have the strength to get up.
Just laid there, sweaty and trembling, fantasizing about noodles and death.
Stared at the ceiling like a Victorian orphan and whispered,

“This is how it ends. In these pijamas I’ve work for 3 days straight. Laying on the floor. Taken out by a bug.”

No dramatic final words. No candlelit goodbye.
Just me, dengue, and the silent judgment of my pets.

And then… I caved.
I called her.
My mum.

The woman I swore I didn’t need.
The woman I’d told, confidently, that I was “fine” and “grown” and “totally capable of living alone.”

I called her while ugly-crying into a heating pad and whispering,

“I think I’m dying. Please come.”

She lives in another city.
She was on a plane within hours.

And just like that, I was 33 going on 3.
She fed me.
She cleaned.
She rubbed my back.
She gave me the kind of love that no amount of therapy or multivitamins or delivery apps can replace.

And for the first time in a long time, I let someone take care of me.

And at some point, through the countless paracetamol pills and the liters of water I don’t remember drinking, I thought to myself: GROW THE FUCK UP.

Being independent doesn’t mean pretending you’re invincible.
Living alone doesn’t mean dying alone.
Asking for help doesn’t mean failure — it means you're human.

And honestly?
Your friends might let you down.
People might forget.
The world doesn’t always pause for your pain.

So you need to be the one who raises your damn hand and says:

“I’m not okay. Come help me.”

Or call your mom.
Even if you swore you wouldn’t.
Even if you thought you didn’t need anyone.
Because sometimes?
You do.