Let’s just say that if sleep were an Olympic event, I’d be gold medal material. After I came back from a lovely few days with Mum, a pal invited me to dinner. We haven’t seen each other for months, he’s looking after his very elderly and frail mother and still working full time. If I didn’t go, it would be months again before we got the chance.
But it’s the other side of London, so tube is the only option, with two changes. I haven’t taken the tube more than a couple of times this whole year, seems to me to be virus and germ heaven.
We had a lovely evening together and caught up as old friends do when they haven’t seen each other, like taking up a piece of knitting. You know the pattern and the stitches and it all flows wonderfully.
The next day I felt a bit feverish, so spent most of the day in bed apart from a quick sortie to a coffee shop. On Monday woke with the only too familiar sense of exhaustion. The sort of tiredness that has you arguing with yourself to make it to the bathroom.
And that has pretty much been the week, sleeping all night and waking briefly in the morning to go to the loo and have plenty of water, before collapsing back into bed. One day I woke at….7pm, not having eaten all day.
Each day sees a bit of improvement, the last couple of days I’ve been up around 5, taken a shower and cooked myself a proper meal. I’m digging deep into my freezer for all those delicious left overs. Turns out they make a reasonable, though eclectic mix. Tonight was meatballs, spinach, haricot beans in tomato sauce with mashed potato.
The thing with a serious illness is that your immune system is banjaxed. So what would have taken me a day or two of moaning and feeling sorry for myself when I was well, now spreads itself across the week. With the additional extra of feeling that this is how it is going to be for ever.
But my immune system is slowly fighting back and the non- stop sleeping means I look well. Though I won’t be responsible for my actions against the first person who says that.