My birthday didn’t end so well yesterday, as coughing spells began again, and the night ended with a big headache and feelings that were very similar to when my pertussis was in full force. I was hoping to get better, not to get worse. I’ve never been sick this long in my life. “30 and thriving!” my friend wrote to me yesterday. Yes, I’d be thirty and thriving if I weren’t trying so hard to recover from this stupid whooping cough.

Maybe Ed sensed how miserable I was physically feeling because he came to visit last night after a long time of no visits. In my dream, I was at home, and I noticed he was coughing and blowing his nose a lot. He sounded congested. I told him he didn’t look or sound so well, and he agreed and said he felt terrible. I opened the medicine cabinet in our bathroom at home and started taking out the Vicks inhaler, some pills, and a thermometer, and proceeded to boil some water and prepare honey and lemon for him. He sat down, like a little obedient boy, and watched me as I prepared things to make him better. I put my hand on his forehead to check his temperature, and he seemed fine. He had no fever. I gazed at my sick brother and wondered how long we’d be together for until he’d leave me.

And then as always, I woke up. Stupid whooping cough, and damn it, Ed. Always leaving.