Tuesday 10 March 2015

Sinusitis, tonsillitis, conjunctivitis...

...vomiting bug, a sprained ankle and two split lips.


Have you ever wished you were ill?


I have.


Before any psychologists reading this jump for joy, I'm not referring to depression - I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy, let alone myself - I just mean a nice bug. One of those ones people say 'absolutely knocked them out', and exclaim with horror that they 'actually had to go to bed for three days'.


Actually is one of those words that is over-used these days. I blame the Americans. Logie, newly turned four, says 'actually' a lot, though it's (actually) quite sweet when used as the adverb in 'I love you', 'I haven't watched Power Rangers for ages' (a lie) or 'Felix hit me like this'. He also says cookies instead of biscuits, and good when someone asks 'How are you?', which really pains me.


Now I have a low pain threshold, but the idea of a three-day lie-down for a glorified cold is appealing to me. I'm no fan of nausea, but it seems a neat way to lose weight quickly too - if you've got no appetite, not eating won't be hard.


However, I recently had a very sore throat, a blocked ear, headache and a weird lightheadness when I stood up. The doc said it was tonsillitis and sinusitis, as the pressure in my sinus by my eardrum was affecting my balance. She gave me antibiotics! Veritable proof of the diagnosis! I had the perfect excuse to retreat to my sickbed.


Except I didn't enjoy it. I didn't watch lots of lovely crap telly. Or read my book. I didn't lose any weight. I ate rarely because I couldn't be fagged to go down to the kitchen, but when I did I posted into my mouth anything that could be knocked up in less than 30 seconds or eaten straight from the fridge. I even persuaded Jon to order pizza to eat in bed.


I felt rubbish (what a surprise) so I just sort of mulched, getting my sheets all rucked up and losing my duvet inside the duvet cover, but being unable to fix it due to my immense frailty. I drifted in and out of sleep, fretting that no one would believe I was really ill. Because that's the thing when you've had long periods of mental ill health - you feel pretty guilty about being physically ill. You think you've used up all your credit, and no one is going to believe you anyway because you're such a wimp.


So instead of simply logging off from work, I replied to every e-mail informing that person (regardless of whether I'd ever met them) that I had the two -itises, and couldn't do any work. I laid it on thick the one time I collected Logie from school, til one of my fellow mums offered to take him to his swimming lesson for me. Having secretly longed for one of these bugs, I didn't feel like I deserved it. 


I began to doubt my own symptoms, particularly when Jon would ask 'How are you feeling?' approximately three seconds after I'd woken up, when the only truthful answer was 'I don't know yet'. Even though my head was as clear as someone's peripherary vision in a parka, I worried that if I kept absolutely perfectly still then perhaps I was just imagining my headache. Isn't it normal for it to hurt just a bit when you swallow?


Anyway, by the time I started to recover, and retook the reins of our household, things had stacked up alarmingly. I had a 1600-word piece to file in a couple of days. We were literally down to our very last babywipe - something I still find extraordinary as we order them by the boxload and always have a pack on the go in at least three different room. How can nobody have not noticed that this crisis was looming?


Since I have bravely clawed my way back to the land of the living, our household has continued to provide a wealth of material in terms of ailments, but I'll only whizz through them because this is all about me and the double affliction that I did/didn't want/have. Felix has had a vomiting bug, which has been a substantial test for our washing machine, and made our sitting room a no-go area what with the collateral damage suffered by both sofas as well as the carpet. 


Jon has had bacterial conjunctivitis, which made his eyes terribly red, and initially gave him a slight squint (which he ironically said he couldn't see). I just keep thinking how awful it would be if you got that just before your wedding, which reminds me of the friend of a friend whose fiancé had his head shaved completely bald on his stag weekend. His best man, the instigator, was apparently banned from the wedding.


Both boys have cut their lips - Logie on a trampoline, Felix on a basin - which have bled rather alarmingly. It's especially alarming if you're not in the room when it happens (I am not a bad mother) and think their crying is just due to a normal snatching or thumping incident, then you return and find their face covered in blood (I am not a bad mother).


Their injuries have long healed though compared to my ankle, which I sprained over a month ago at a work event. I'd like to stress that I really wasn't drunk, in fact I was holding my first drink of the evening, which is perhaps why I fell so awkwardly - because I was determined not to spill it. But the swelling just won't go down. In case you're interested, apparently I sprained it in two places, one of them being quite rare and known as a high ankle sprain (I thoughtfully included a hyperlink about this when e-mailing a few people afterwards, because I don't think things sound serious enough if they're not an -itis).


But despite all that I'm almost back up to speed, although I still have about forty thank-you letters to write from the boys' birthdays. Perhaps if I included a copy of this blog, they'd forgive the delay. Though would it get me more or less sympathy the next time I'm ill?


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