In Sickness and In Health

I am compelled by contrast. As a small child, in the middle of a sun-soaked, leafy day, I suddenly thought about winter snow. Imagine?! The contrast! That such a thing was possible, if only by increment. From June to January, how it all changes. 

That was the late 1970's. But hey, January to June, 2020? It's incredible how all our lives have all changed. 

I also have a huge slice of contrast in my own life story. What many folk don't know, is that I was desperately ill and 'disabled' for two decades and now count myself as recovered. 

I was an 18 year old university student when I caught a flu virus.  I felt slayed. I couldn't stand up. My family brought my food to my bed. I expected to get better, but I got steadily worse. 

It was flabbergasting. I developed a migraine- level headache that never went away. It was there for every waking moment. Painkillers wouldn't touch it. I couldn't watch TV, talk, read, or even listen to the radio. It was like being in an iron lung, inside my own head. I got too weak to hold a knife and fork. I couldn't walk to the loo; my parents had to drag me on an office chair. Even my skin rebelled, developing eczema. 

After about 6 months, doctors diagnosed Myalgic Encephalomyelitus (or ME). It was something I'd never heard of, and a name I was embarrassed of. M.E. was too... me, me me. The ridiculous mockery of the term, Yuppie Flu. 

The realisation of just how ill I was, dawned in slow horror.  It was possible to get a virus and not get better? It was possible to get worse? Time and healing are not always linear. 

I spent 4 years bed-bound in constant pain and suffering; 4 years being the skinny ghost of a teenager in pyjamas in a back room.  

Then  another 16 years when I operated at about 50% of normal. On a good day. I was the Great Pretender. 

I became best pals with Stuart, who also had ME. We both had lots of catching up to do. We dressed oddly and paid for taxi's to cafes, where we ate scones. We laughed and we cried. We made jokes about quiche. I was so unused to being out and about, I had an urge to wave to strangers from the back of the taxi, like a child. Here we were, two kids with bad fringes.

Stuart formed a band  called Belle and Sebastian. I thought he was a bit crazy. In a good way, of course. Good luck with that song about Judy and the Dream of Horses, I thought. No chance, I thought. Ha!

A few years in, I met my partner, Francis, at an early Belle and Sebastian gig. I asked Stuart where he'd been hiding Francis. I 

called Francis, 'the unrequited love of my life'. Until he started requiting. 

Later I did a weird and wacky therapy and it was the start of a miracle recovery from 20 years of illness. Now, 24 years later, Francis and I have two beautiful kids, Hugh and Tess. 

When I think about trying to write about my lost 20's and 30's, it is too big to know where to start. I have enjoyed writing these bite-sized blog posts during the pandemic, and perhaps that's a good a way to go. To keep it informal and short. There are many aspects I could touch on, in future posts. But this is the speeded-up version. 

I often think of ME sufferers who are still ill, who haven't been so lucky. I'm horrified by the prospect of  'Long Tail Covid'.  People with Covid-19 are not getting any better for months, or possibly years.

I am still very heart-sink-y about Tess's chronic cough. For 6 months, my beloved child has been unable to exercise (even slightly) without it triggering coughing fits. She coughs every night before bed. She coughs when she wakes. She coughs when she gets chatty. She coughs at traffic fumes, now cars are back on the roads. 

I still suspect (and fear) she has Vocal Chord Dysfunction, yet another chronic condition.  One that can run parallel to asthma. It has to be managed, when it can't be treated. I've been told we will need to wait months for an ENT appointment on the NHS. 

 So, here we are folks, in a global pandemic- approaching the solstice, mid summer, the longest day. My favourite time of year. Nature feels like a young girl who has no idea how beautiful she is. You could fool yourself that life is meant to be easy. For a moment or two, at least.

The trees are resplendent. As poet, Philip Larkin wrote about the unfurling leaves, every year, they begin, 'afresh, afresh, afresh. '

One day at a time, is maybe where most of us are at. Judy can keep on dreaming of those horses, be they sinister or bright. There is always room for both in the paddock of life.