The Frog in my Throat

Art card by Anne Karissa B. Angeles

I'm sick. A frog egg swells inside my neck, causing me to cough and sputter in irritation. I tell my mom, and she texts me a dwindling list of what I should take, miles long. Even in the daylight, the medicine cabinet is a box of horrors. Instead, I resign myself to comfort food. The last two eggs in the fridge laugh at me as I crack them into the pan. Back to bed. I sip some water and nap, a cool pack on my forehead.

The day marches forward, dragging me unwillingly through the sludge. The frog egg in my throat grows into a tadpole, little legs and a tail tickling and scratching me from the inside. The cool pack barely helps. My sister sighs and tells me to get to the list already, her white scrubs neatly ironed and folded on her bed. I grumble at her and take another nap.

When I wake, my parents are calling me, telling me to take the meds already. My head pounds at the grating static of the phone speaker. I force myself up, force grains of rice into the rice cooker. The day passes; the cool of night is equally unforgiving. The tadpole seems to have lost its tail, frog legs now stifling my airways.

I fall asleep again on the couch, only to be startled awake by my own mind. It's inescapable now. The frog in my throat grows heavier, louder. I go to spit his anger down the bathroom sink, and eyes leer at me as I pass the cabinets. I approach the horrors, slowly opening the doors.

A yellow light blinks above me. A lone motorcycle revs its engine on the road outside, the roar echoing in the empty room. I look around and notice: rice left in the ricecooker, a locked door where my sister has left, my bag and its contents sprawled across the table. My mom used to put out the medicine I needed on the dining table at home in a neat stack. I pull my eyes away from the mess to face the one in front of me.

My hands shake as I reach out, the names on the list she sent blurred in my mind. My lip trembles, my skin raising goosebumps along my arms. Quickly, I pull out a sheet of pills, a bottle, and some sachets, and swipe away the moisture on my cheek.

The yellow light blinks again. I look down at the medicine cabinet. I’ve done it. A long breath escapes me, and I start to fidget around with the other assorted bottles and pills, wondering if I should try things not on the list. Instead, I take my temperature and scowl at the number it shows me. I close the doors again, the box of horrors now just a set of wooden doors.

I swallow what I need to before I melt again and grip the sink to keep from hurling. The frog in my throat quiets, stills. The night, too, is calm enough. I leave the meds in a neat pile on the countertop, my mom's voice in my head. I crawl into bed and stare at the lines of light on the ceiling. A small ribbit sounds in the midnight air.

Tomorrow is another fight.