This chronic illness lark is like having a new job. So many appointments to attend. So many biological readings to document. So much research to undertake: a never-ending, insurmountable amount of research to perform. So many Facebook groups to scour for information, lending support to others when I can.
So many medical experts to juggle. So many letters – yes, letters! – to write. So much evidence to archive. New tablets to collect, to ingest and then the impact thereof, if any, to document. All the while, my I-watch tells me how little movement I have done, how few steps. And food – did I eat the right stuff and at the right times? And is there an alternative medic – a witch doctor will do! – with the silver bullet, just waiting for me locate?
I could do with a break from this job. It’s knackering – and then there is the illness to contend with, and my obligations unperformed.
Of course, my chances of recovery are far higher than for any person in preceding centuries, but I do wonder whether all these burdensome, self-centred tasks are in some ways detrimental to a recovery. In years gone by, perhaps some people in my position would go to Harrogate to “take the water” just as Karl Marx did with his daughter, Eleanor, in November 1873, staying for three weeks. I’m already here!
