I was sick for a week. Chicken pox. In the age of twenty-three. In the middle of intensive training in which I need at least 80% attendance and have exam every Monday. And all of this happened when I was still in the Capital, living faraway from my family.
I guess I couldn't thank my lucky stars for that.
When I discovered I have red rash all over my body after having fever for two days straight, I started to freak out. It was Friday. I already had the plan to hang out: sort of small reunion with my college friends. My best friend from Yogyakarta also happened to have a training in the Capital too, so we decided to meet up and hang like we used to do back in the days. Then I went to doctor, hoping it wasn't as bad as I thought. But the young, handsome doctor told me with his charming smile that it was indeed a chicken pox. I should have a rest for two or three days, he said. But I said I didn't have that much of a time, that there's this exam I had to face in Monday and those class I couldn't just skip. So the doctor told me it was okay to still come to class but I had to wear mask. Honestly, I was relieved. At least I wouldn't have to redo my training next year because I clearly failed if I didn't attend the exam.