Okay readers, I had a blonde moment. I am actually NOT officially in that book yet. I read the list of people who had submitted and read it as the list of contributors. Oops.
That's not to say I won't be picked! (maybe).
Reflexologist: Have you shaved your feet?
Me: Yes.
[pause]
Reflexologist: Why?
Me: I have hairs on my toes and tops of my feet and it's horrible.
Reflexologist: But
shaving?
Me: Yes. I have rather a lot of hair.
[pause]
So anyway how was your week?
Reflexologist: How much hair?
Me: LOADS.
She did not say much after that.
I click the drop down arrow on Google toolbar.
Stick with it. It gets more interesting.
MindReader is behind me, sat on my mound of pillows whilst I slump back against him.
My entire google search history since I have had this laptop opens up.
"Writers Handbook 2008," he reads. "Fahrenheit conversion celsius, and ideal body temperature," he says, a smile cracking over his features. "US proxy server," he says.
"I watch American TV!" I say.
"Rash legs viral, ASP rash fever, mononucleosis in bed for 6 months, how to raise platelet count, petechiae mononucleosis, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome hereditary, addison's disease symptoms, diabetes symptoms, Magistrate's sentencing guidelines, watch TV online, job centre plus," he says, reaching the end of my search history.
My cheeks are flaming red as he kisses my forehead.
"It's your life in a nutshell," he says laughing.
Labels: illness, MindReader
"You can go on a walk, you've got no problems," I say irrationally at the television.
MindReader gazes calmly at me. "What?"
I sigh. "I would never be bitter about problems if I could just stand up and go on a walk and
lament about them."
"Hmm," MindReader says.
"She's so
lucky," I say.
"What else is she?"
"Beautiful," I say.
"And?"
"Tanned!"
"And?"
"Ah," I say. "Fictional!"
"Yes!" MindReader says. "Got it in four."
Labels: MindReader
"HomeFriend came round today," I say on the phone to MindReader.
"Oh?" he says. "How was she?"
"Good," I say.
"What presents did she bring you?"
I smile. "A card making kit. So far I have stuck my hands together and glued everything in the box to the card, randomly."
"Oh," he soothes. "Maybe with a little practise you'll be able to make birthday cards."
"I don't really know anyone with birthdays coming up in May," I say.
"Um, mine?"
Labels: MindReader
So I had a bath, and I thought I got the sticky marks from where the heartrate thingies went in the ambulance. And then today they have slowly appeared again, gathering fluff.
I cannot get rid of them!! Tips?
I spoon myself closer to MindReader.
"What's our 'thing'?" I say to him.
"Our thing?"
"You know, couples have a
thing, like going to plays or hosting dinner parties."
"Not sure," he says, squeezing my waist.
"That's my spleen," I say. "It's aching."
"Sorry," he says. "What was your highlight of today?"
"Not having meningitis," I say. "Yours?"
"You not having meningitis." He pauses. "Medical stuff," he says.
"Yep, that's our thing."
Labels: illness, MindReader
For some reason today I can't even lift my head off the pillow.
I huff and lie back to paint my newly-grown finger nails. The paint slicks on, a glossy wet line along my nail.
And that's when I see them.
One on my ring finger. Three on my arm.
Two on my other arm.
Bright pink spots.
It's nail varnish, I think. Until I see them on my back, my shoulders.
My mind is surprisingly clear as I walk into the kitchen for a glass, roll it over the rash, watch it clear as day underneath the pressure of the glass; spidery suns under my skin.
***
The woman on NHS direct is not as calm. "Call an ambulance," she says. "Now."
I still do not think as my fingers dial 999. I think of the only times I have seen these numbers - on horror films and dramas, shouted as buildings explode and people collapse.
I crumple on the phone to MadFather and MindReader. The reality of that word -
meningitis - so different from the
glandular fever that rolls so easily off my tongue even in the dead of the night.
"I'm on my way," they had both said, dropping work colleagues as money quickly lost its meaning.
The paramedic is trying to distract me from the ECG sticky thingies on my arms and ankles, my pulse (125!) echoing around the ambulance. He touches my rash and goes slightly white. He chatters to me about conveyancing, his wife's will, whether I'd sue him if it hurt when he tested my blood sugar levels.
"I need to not sit up, in the waiting room," I say, wondering when I got so bed-ridden. "I know I look fine but I actually can't."
He nods as my phone jingles, interrupting the rhythm of the heart monitor. His eyebrows reach his harline and I place a hand on his arm. "It's my phone, not my heartrate," I say and he visibly relaxes.
He hands me over to the Accident and Emergency team and I feel strangely lost without him in his green overalls.
I am poked and prodded for a further hour. A junior doctor looks confused and says I look too well for meningitis. The registrar comes in (complete with GIANT grey beard I would like to put my hands in) and SCRATCHES at my spots, shrugging casually. A consultant comes in last.
"Taken any antibiotics lately?" he says abruptly.
"No," I say. "I know amoxycillan can cause this rash with glandular fever."
He raises his eyebrows. "I'm a Googler," I explain.
"I see," he says.
he makes me take my pants off and wear a gown. Then he pokes and prods at my buttocks (why?) and pushes his stethascope INSIDE MY BRA.
"We think you have low platelet counts, because of the mononucleosis," he says.
"I knew that," I say. "Does that mean I can go?"
He nods. The room is still spinning. I walk out into the car park. And then.
Relief.
Labels: Dad, illness, MindReader
The doorbell goes. I look down at my outfit. I have been meaning to have a bath all day, but have been distracted by things like America's Next Top Model and Gossip Girl. Consequently I have added various items to my pyjamas -
hot pants and vest top - as I got colder. namely, a cardigan that comes down to my thighs, and fluffy Santa Claus socks.
I figure it is probably only the postman, and Lord knows he has seen me worse.
I fling the door open. "Oh," I say, seeing
HomeFriend.
"
Billygean," she says, flinging an arm around me.
Then she pauses.
"You're not wearing much!"
I laugh. "Is this not acceptable? I don't socialise much," I say with a grin.
"It's fine," she says, ushering me to sit back down. "I bring you gifts!" she says, presenting me with a box. "To keep you creative," she says.
I open the box and out fall hundreds of matchsticks.
"You use the matchsticks," she says, "and the glue, to build things."
She places a dinner tray on my stomach. "You can even do it lying down."
I laugh, touched. "Thank you," I say. "I can't believe it's come to this, to keep me entertained."
"I can't believe it's come to this generally," she says. "Would you have done less, before, if you'd have known what would happen?"
"No," I say, eyeing the drawings on the box, Cathedrals built up and up out of thousands of tiny matchsticks. "I would have done more."
Labels: illness
"Do you think you could be depressed?"
I stare at the Doctor. "Definitely," I say, without missing a beat. "You try not leaving the house since January."
"No, no," he says. "Do you think you don't want to get up
because you are depressed?"
I drum my fingers on the table. "I have a temperature and a sore throat. I feel dizzy whenever I sit up. I actively fantasise about going to the supermarket. And now I'm seeing you, because I'm so desperate to sort this out. What do
you think?"
The Doctor stares at me. "I need a yes or a no," he says, and I recall all the times I'd uttered that phrase -
was it possible you incorrectly identified the defendant? Is it therefore possible you made a mistake?"No."
"I see," he says. "Have you tried an antidepressant?"
I huff impatiently. "No, because I don't think any drug could take my attention away from the fact that I'm housebound. And quite frankly I'd be afraid if it could."
"Why?"
"I am not
depressed," I say. "If I were, I would admit it. I am physically ill."
"You could maybe try St John's Wort, a herbal antidepressant."
I ball my hands into fists. DoctorSister warned me doctors may do this, but I didn't realise somebody could be so far off the mark.
"That interferes with the contraceptive pill I'm on," I say.
"So?"
I take a deep breath. And decide to embarrass him. "What would depress me more than glandular fever," I say, "would be to take something that ensured I couldn't have regular sex with my boyfriend. Especially if the reason I was taking it was, irony, to cheer me up."
He blushes. "You're still having sex?"
"Yes," I say smiling.
I wouldn't say I'm exactly great in the sack, I think, being able to do nothing except lie down.
But MindReader and I don't mind.
"Probably we'll start looking at factors other than depression then," he says. "You don't sound depressed."
I smile. "I know," I say.
Labels: illness, MindReader
MindReader walks into the living room, and I rush into his arms.
"How're you?" he says into my hair.
"Scared," I say.
Today was not a good day.
Still bed-ridden? My Doctor had said, her eyes darkening.
I'm not sure this is mononucleosis we're dealing with anymore. Tears pooled in my eyes in her little room as I sat there trying not to pretend I was exhausted from sitting up, that I felt like it was my fault my immune system can't get rid of this virus.
She took my temperature -
101.4, more raised eyebrows - and said my throat was still sore. She shrugged slightly, clearly baffled.
I think, she had said slowly,
it is probably time to look for something else that is sapping your immune system.
My head burrows deeper into MindReader's shoulder as I dread next week already: blood tests, thyroid function tests, diabetes tests.
My gaze rests on the TV over MindReader's shoulder (he is not very tall). "Baby goats," I say smiling. "Guess how many were in the litter?"
"Twelve?" MindReader says, squeezing my waist.
"Sixteen!" I say.
"Really? I was joking!"
"Where are you on having sixteen baby goats living in our flat with us?" I say, "when I'm well."
"Mostly against it," MindReader says, and I snuggle closer to him.
Labels: illness, MindReader
The message box flashes on my screen. It is a message from one of my readers. I smile.
"I was wondering whether
MindReader was going to pop the question - when you're well?" it says.
"I don't know about that..." I type back, flattered at the interest in my life.
I wander out of the living room, my head pounding, and sit on the back doorstep; as close to the outside world as I can get. The sun is setting, and the sunset looks like a child's drawing; lazy streaks of pink and orange. I try not to frown as I look at the buds on the trees, living proof that time is marching on as I stay sick.
I think of how
MindReader sits patiently while I ignore him when I'm in a novel writing mood, how he fetches me tea and runs me baths and tells me my eyebrows aren't
level when I've plucked them lying down. I think of how my stomach still darts when around him, how urgently I can unbutton his shirt even when I have no energy for anything else. I think about how I feel now when I see babies: whether it would have
MindReader's piercing blue eyes, his even temperament, his freckly hands.
"Well," I type, back at the computer. "I guess that depends on how long I'm ill."
"Mysterious," she types back, and I smile.
Labels: illness, MindReader
"Hello," ReflexologyLady says, answering the door.
"Hi," I say, stepping in and setting my bag down.
"What happened to your face?" she says.
I close my eyes briefly. I am not going to lie.
Now, MindReader had said, his hands on my shoulders,
what do you say when she says 'can you feel that?' I say no, I had repeated.
Just. Don't. Lie.
"I, um," I say
really not liking telling the truth. "I was holding the remote control lying on m back and I dropped it on my face."
"Oh," she says. "Er. Oh dear."
And she
definitely looks at me like I am special.
Labels: illness
"This is John from Job Centre Plus," a man's voice says into my mobile. "Is that
Billygean?"
"Yes," I say, wondering when TV stopped being a distraction and I started to actually get annoyed when social interaction got in the way of Neighbours.
"You applied online for incapacity benefits," he says. "And we just need to ask you a few questions."
I wince.
You're too ill to work,
MadFather had shrugged,
so you need money. I jut my chin out. Even though he can't see me. "That's right," I say.
"First of all we need to tell you a bit about benefit fraud." I roll my eyes. "Do you know what fraud it?"
I miss a beat.
Fuck it, I think. "It's knowingly and intentionally obtaining or attempting to obtain financial gain to which there is no entitlement, by act, ommssion, colluding or any other criminal activity."
There is a long silence. "Right," he says eventually. "Let's move on."
Victory.
Labels: illness, law
"How do you feel?" MindReader's arms wrap around my waist, his voice a whisper at my ear.
We are at a spa day; a birthday present so belated that we decided to just go. Sometimes, I am realising, I have to sacrifice my glands for a bit of sanity.
We have drifted from room to room, filled with steam and jasmine, with salt and eucalyptus, the dry heat of a sauna.
I sit lightly down on the swimming pool steps, my feet dangling in the warm water, and ease myself in. The outside air chills my shoulders and creates a fine mist rising above the water.
"Alive," I say.
Labels: illness
"Hello," I say to MindReader. He is sitting on the sofa, feet propped up on the table, a glass bottle of coke in his hand. It is nice to come home to him.
"Hey," he says. "Was reflexology good? Are you glad you sprayed your feet with perfume?"
I smile and slide down next to him, my head on his shoulder. "Ye-es," I say. "But," lowering my voice to a whisper, "I sort of told the reflexology lady a lie."
MindReader closes his eyes briefly, a frown crossing his forehead. "What lie."
"I asked her what part of my body she was working on, because I was INTERESTED, and she said the spine, why, can you feel it? So I HAD to say yes. And then she was all, oh that changes things, and started doing different stuff!"
"You didn't have to say yes," MindReader says, his eyes crinkling, "you could have said no, you can't feel it."
I grimace. "No I couldn't."
"Why?"
"Because I want her to LIKE me."
Labels: MindReader
I step out of the car, and I try to make the most of every second.
The air is full of moisture, rain and sleet and snow, yet it smells like spring: of grass and honeysuckle and fertile soil. The sky is neither dark nor light; a quilt of raincloud letting in the bright, evening sunlight at its seams.
"What a miserable night,"
MadFather says, wrapping his coat around him.
I smile. It is the most beautiful night I have ever seen. I had forgotten how it feels to be outside. Not only how good it smells, how I'd forgotten how beautiful the sky could be, but how after just a moment the wind leaves my hair chilled, resting on my neck like a cool hand; how the sunlight lights up the very whites of my eyes.
I cross the lawn we are standing on, feeling my muscles, so unused to this, slide over each other, knowing I will pay for this tomorrow.
The front door opens. "Hello," I say to the lady. She is exactly as I imagined; about 50, bobbed grey hair, slightly tanned. "I'm here for reflexology."
She ushers me in. The room is a soft reclining chair, an oil burner, an
ipod touch playing
panpipe music.
We just need to do a bit of background," she says, "before I can help you."
We go through my symptoms. Fatigue so bad I cannot sit up for longer than an hour, constant fever, bouts of sore throat.
"Now I just need to ask you some questions before we begin," she says. "Have you had any surgery I should know about?"
"Oh, foot surgery," I say. "That's probably relevant."
"Right," she says, writing on her clipboard.
"Have you had any respiratory problems?"
"No."
"Any problems with your urinary tract?"
"Oh, yes, loads of infections. The doctors don't know why."
"Okay," she says. "Trouble sleeping?"
"Yes, I can't get to sleep and then I wake up every few hours."
"Poor circulation?"
"Yes. My hands and feet are always cold."
She raises her eyebrows. "Any digestive problems?"
"Yes," I say., sighing as I realise how much I'd forgotten to tell her. "Since I got ill I often randomly throw up."
"Any skin conditions?"
"I have a lot of bruises," I say. "Glandular fever lowers your platelet content so you bruise easily. And have nose bleeds."
"Right," she says. "You're quite broken aren't you?"
I try to smile at her, the reality of my condition now staring at me, on a reflexology information form.
"One last thing," she says. "Did you used to be active, before this - happened to you?"
I cast my mind back, to days spent strolling around Canon Hill Park with
MindReader, chasing a goose until it flew into the water. Of evenings in hot baths after
pilates, ballet, yoga, stretching out my worn muscles and complaining, a rueful smile on my face. Of running for trains, to take back library books, of chasing
MindReader, giggling, into bed.
"Yes," I say. "I used to do ballet and - well all sorts, really. In a former life."
The tears catch in my throat and she pats my arm. "Now," she says. "Let's get you well."
Labels: illness, MindReader
"DoctorSister," I say from my bed of pillows in the living room (a way of sitting up without expending energy, you have no idea how happy this makes me), "my inner ear's bleeding."
"Really?" she says, concern on her face. Not, of course, for my ear, but because of my hypochondria even though I already HAVE an illness.
"Yes, look," I say, showing her the blood on the duvet.
"It's probably just where you've scratched it in your sleep," she says, for I have been asleep most of the day. What can I say? The Grand Prix was on. "You have long nails now, after all."
I smile as she leaves the room to make more tea.
"Okay baby?" MadFather says.
I give him a naughty smile. "My ear itches because I scratched it with this," I say, brandishing a metal nail file.
"Idiot," he snorts. "I use a pen lid."
He pauses. "I have a special pen lid I keep for scratching. It's covered in ear wax."
I wrinkle my nose. "Where is it?"
"In the kitchen," he says. "Obviously."
Labels: Dad, illness
"I just don't think I can have these fights anymore," I say to MindReader, knowing what he might be thinking.
The ones you cause? The ones that come from nowhere?
"I'm sick of it," I say, and even now, I know it is the glandular fever talking. Or rather, that it is the glandular fever I am talking about.
"I'll go then," he says quietly, stoically.
I hang the phone up softly, the my tears fall directly onto my glasses, fogging up my entire world.
I always wish I could articulate, at the time, how he looks when he sleeps, laughter lines drawn on, as if it may only be a matter of seconds before he is laughing again. Or how he has quietly rearranged his whole world, missing football matches and parties, slotting in around my turbulent one. And when a mutual friend asked how he, MindReader, was coping, he said with what? I wish I could tell him to care less, about mice on the discovery channel, about the Zimbabwe elections, about my glands. I wish he would care more for himself. I wish he knew I had never had a boyfriend so tactile, that even after a year of sitting too closely together, when I asked how come he always pulled me to him on the sofa, he said it was because he couldn't imagine why I would be anywhere else. I wish I could tell him not to worry, because no matter how dramatic things may be now, we both know that this is our first year of many.
So I suppose this one, MindReader, is for you. Thank you for putting up with my mood swings better that I put up with them myself.
Labels: MindReader
MadFather is, I suspect, slightly pissed. Since I only drink
echinacea tea and orange juice, the bottle of wine and
MadFather are left to their own devices.
The Heaviest Man In The World (my antithesis, if you will) is on the television. It really is disgusting. He is dancing, sat down, his man boobs jiggling. It is not funny.
"That's the
second most disgusting thing I've seen this week,"
MadFather announces.
"Oh really," I say. "What was the first?"
"My friend's jeans," he says.
I look at him questioningly. He swigs his wine.
"Well," he says. "I was in the changing rooms at squash and I could smell
fish. I hunted around and around the changing room for a fish and came close to this guy's jeans. They
stank of fish."
"That's not that gross," I say.
"
Billygean," he says. "I had to wash my
nose."
Labels: Dad
"It's nice," I say to MindReader, his face shadowed by candlelight, "to choose where I live next year instead of being told where to live by FutureLawFirm."
"I know," he says, smiling. "You can be in Birmingham with me."
"You, me and Rainman?" I say, referring of course to our future cat, a name born out of a hilarious Easter Saturday watching Rainman behave autistically on the television as I colour coded my smarties on my lap.
"Yep," he says, linking his hands with mine.
"Unless I'm still ill," I say. "What then?"
"Well," he says. "I'll just have to move in with you and your Dad."
"So we're really doing it?" I say, bringing my wine glass up to his. "We're really moving in together, no matter what?"
"Yep," he says, and as he draws me in for a kiss I finally feel like I've come home.
Labels: illness, MindReader
"Billygean," my personal tutor says. "What can I do for you?"
"I'm dropping out," I say bluntly, my mouth full of donut, having not expected her to return my call so quickly.
"Right," she says. "Why?"
"Um," I say, bemused. "I'm not sure if you're aware of my ill health...?"
"Oh right, right, of course," she says, and I hear her shuffling papers. That's what lawyers do, rather than show emotion.
"So..."
"Well! We'll send the form... And we'll see you next March!" She says.
A bit abrupt, I think. But whatever. "Okay," I say.
She pauses. "What are you going to do for a year?" she says.
I am taken aback. "Erm... Get well. Do my resits. Work, for a bit," I say.
"I see," she says. "Spend some time doing something you won't be able to do when you're a lawyer," she says, wistfully, and I wonder what made her quit the law that I sometimes crave with an ache that hurts.
"I will," I say. And that's when I see the silver lining, blinding bright. I can blog for another 18 months.
Labels: illness, law
