The Big Sick: A Survivalist’s Guide to Health, Resilience, and Questionable Life Choices

By Stephanie Hodge Not the Dog

It begins, as these things often do, with a tickle in the throat, a fog in the head, and the unmistakable realization that I, staunch defender of the self-sufficient lifestyle, am too sick to write this blog. If you’re reading this, know that it has been typed from beneath a fortress of crumpled tissues and blankets, sustained only by chicken soup and sheer willpower.

It’s not the first-time illness has cornered me, and, if my track record is anything to go by, it won’t be the last. My body has weathered more plot twists than a soap opera. But along the way, I’ve picked up a few tricks and a philosophy that boils down to this: Don’t wait for someone to save you—especially when they’ll charge you $400 for a Band-Aid.

Of course, if this approach eventually kills me, feel free to shrug and say, “Well, I told you so. Should’ve gotten the ObamaCare.”

The Thorn in My Sole: DIY Surgery at Victoria Falls

Victoria Falls: a wonder of the natural world, a symphony of crashing water and rainbow mist, and, for me, a crash course in amateur podiatry.

The trouble began when I stepped off the beaten path—literally—and into a thorn that felt as if it had been designed by Mother Nature to punish hubris. A visit to the local clinic revealed an unpromising array of options: endure a tetanus-tainted foot-digging session performed with tools that had likely seen better decades, or go full MacGyver and handle it myself.

Armed with peroxide, tweezers, and an unearned sense of medical competency, I chose the latter. Did it hurt? Like hell. But I emerged victorious—and slightly high on self-satisfaction—proving that sometimes the best healthcare plan is a steady hand and a high pain tolerance.

Malaria in Papua New Guinea: Fever Dreams and Quinine Schemes

Nothing says “unwelcome souvenir” like malaria. One moment, you’re trekking through the jungle in Papua New Guinea, marveling at exotic birds; the next, you’re sweating through your mosquito net and hallucinating that a cassowary is offering you life advice.

Enter quinine, the hero and villain of this tale. It’s a remedy as bitter as betrayal but effective enough to keep me alive. While I wouldn’t recommend it as a recreational beverage, quinine does lend a certain gravitas to a feverish existential crisis.

Jakarta’s Gut Parasite: A Two-Year Tenant

Jakarta gifted me a gut parasite, which I fondly refer to as “the roommate I didn’t ask for.” For two years, it stayed with me, undetected by doctors who alternated between “take antibiotics” and “just eat more yogurt.”

Eventually, I gave up on evicting it and decided to coexist. I avoided spicy food; it let me sleep through the night. When it finally moved out, I felt a pang of Stockholm Syndrome. After all, what’s a little abdominal discomfort between frenemies?

The Slipped Disc That Went to Kuwait

The day before a mission to Kuwait, my back decided to quit on me. A slipped disc, the doctor said, grimacing as I described my plan to board a long-haul flight. His advice: “Don’t go.” My response: “I have a heating pad and ibuprofen. I’ll take my chances.”

By the time the plane landed, the pain had miraculously subsided—or I’d just lost all feeling in my lower body. Either way, the mission was a success, proving that denial is sometimes the best anesthetic.

The Broken Shoulder: A Dog-Walking Debacle

Walking the dog should be a low-risk activity, but leave it to me to turn it into a minor disaster. One misstep, one patch of uneven pavement, and suddenly I was on the ground with a shoulder that no longer functioned.

Cue the endless parade of MRIs, consultations, and bills, all culminating in the same conclusion: “There’s not much we can do for a broken shoulder.” (Well, thanks for the $2,000 heads-up.) The recovery was long and mostly involved muttering curses under my breath—at my dog, at gravity, and at the healthcare-industrial complex.

Wellness as a Preemptive Strike

Here’s the thing: I don’t have health insurance. Not because I’m reckless, but because I think it fosters a false sense of security, a belief that the system will catch you when you fall. My philosophy? Don’t fall—or at least, minimize the number of times you hit the ground.

Here’s how I stay ahead of the curve:

1. Run 12 Miles a Day: It’s free, it clears my head, and it keeps the doctor away (mostly).
2. Eat Real Food: If it has fewer than three ingredients, it’s probably good for you.
3. Sleep Like It’s a Job: Seven hours, non-negotiable.
4. Hydrate: Coffee counts. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
5. Laugh Through the Pain: If you can’t find humor in life’s absurdities, what’s the point?

The Fine Print

I’m not saying my approach is foolproof. If I keel over tomorrow because of an untreated ailment, feel free to write “Should’ve gotten the ObamaCare” on my tombstone. But until then, I’ll keep running, eating kale, and stocking up on peroxide.

Because life doesn’t come with guarantees, only stories. And if you’re lucky, they’ll be just funny enough to tell.