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Sickness
3 August 2003
Across the wires the electric message came:
'He is no better. He is much the same.'
Sorry, that's not even true; I just love it, and I didn't want to wait around for the next time I was ill, in hopes of remembering to use it then. It's a quotation from one of the lesser Poet Laureates, Anselm Audley I think, only my study light has gone and I can't find my sources in the dark. Look it up on Google, if you want to know.
Meanwhile, sorry about the mystery & melodrama, but I enjoy mystery and am naturally melodramatic. Besides which, on Thursday I really was ill. Mega-flu symptoms: shivering, dizzy, aching, sweaty, all of that. Turned all the fires on and put a winter-weight duvet on the bed, and still couldn't stop shaking.
Friday I was so much better I thought I'd had one of those twenty-four hour viruses you read about but never actually get, except that my left leg was all sore below the knee, and the foot was swollen and discoloured. Still is, and this is Sunday. I have been here before, or hereabouts, with the right leg ten years ago, and that foot has been swollen ever since. I've done the specialist thing twice with that one, sans any useful diagnosis. Most people think I had a thrombosis, but no one knows for sure. I suppose I'd better start the whole see-the-doctor process again on Monday with the new one, but I'll go into it with no confidence.
Meanwhile, being sick has disrupted a lovely run of work. I'd had to put the novella aside to write my paper for South Korea; that got interrupted halfway through, and I've only just started it moving again. They wanted the text by the end of July, for translating. And I'd meant to be so good. Sigh...
© Chaz Brenchley 2003
Reproduced here by permission of Chaz Brenchley, who asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this work.