The Pity Sponge

I fell ill recently and came to self-knowledge that was definitely more painful than the viral infection that had taken up residence in my throat. I realized I was a Pity Sponge.

You see, there are only two kinds of patients: Brave Ones and Pity Sponges. You only find out which category you belong to when you fall ill and have people come visit you. In the presence of an audience, your true nature is revealed.

If you’re laid low in bed with a fever so high that your blankets are getting steam-ironed while you’re in them, but you insist to the people who’ve come to visit you, that you’re just a nap away from feeling your finest, then you are one of the Braves.

You’re made of that noble character that soothes and reassures your fellow man. You downplay your ailments so that you can uplift the people around you. Even when your blood count is plunging you can muster the strength to convince a concerned grandmother that dengue is just a common cold with more ICU time.

You make a special effort to put on a brave front. You crack jokes about your ailments. You demand that friends and family stop looking at you like you’re their favourite charity. You argue with your doctor about your prognosis.

Your doctor says, ‘Recovery time will be about 3-4 weeks.’

But you say, ‘I’m not doing anything more than a week.’

And he says, ‘Come on. I can’t go so low. Let’s settle at 2 and half weeks.’

But you say, ‘Two weeks and no follow-ups.’

And your doctor relents because he knows there’s no winning against a person of such fearsome mental toughness.

I wish I had that grit. Unfortunately, when I fall ill I turn into a black hole of pity. I wallow in bed and play up my illnesses like the lead character in a daytime soap.

I look at people with puppy eyes and groan and moan and whimper until they’re cooing all over me. And once I’ve got them on the hook, I reel them in. I ask them, in a low gurgle, if they could please get me an extra pillow, and a book, and a glass of water, and could they call my employers and ask for leave and oh! – if it isn’t too much trouble could they perform a street play in front of bed to keep me entertained.

And if they protest then I strategically let out a sigh filled with a pain and germs. And they immediately snap to my bidding. If you’re a Pity Sponge, then falling sick means getting five-star treatment in the comfort of your own home.

Once you put your self-respect aside, the attention you get as a Pity Sponge is intoxicating. I’ve seen people make a common cold last for decades just to keep the spotlight of attention firmly on themselves. Mothers are particularly susceptible to the ways of the Pity Sponge. The poor beings of infinite love go into maximum coddle mode at the slightest manipulative mewling of the professional Pity Sponge. Unfortunately, Pity Sponges never seem to harness the power of mothers for anything good.

We would have a better world if Pity Sponges, in between coughs, asked their mothers to fix global poverty.

Mothers would roll out economic policies, run for political offices, get elected and implement change until there was basic income for all only because their sniffling child had asked for it along with a glass of hot water.

But alas, all Pity Sponges demand from their mothers is permission to lay in bed and binge-watch Netflix while food keeps appearing in their laps.

It is indeed, such a pity.