I’ve just weathered a perfect storm of circumstances that culminated in the most serious relapse I’ve endured since developing this illness 8 years ago. In common with many people, I feel drawn to writing about how awful it was: describing the sensations, feelings and thoughts, worries and fears in the hope that by so doing it will add to a collective body of first-hand evidence that will spur the scientific and medical worlds into action. But I’ve decided not to. I suspect my prose is liable to fall into cliche lessening the impact on any casual reader.
Instead, let me express my gratitude towards the people who were with me when this relapse was raging and threatening to overwhelm me. My sister who sat with me, distressed. My new GP who offered compassion. Twitter buddies who offered many kind thoughts and prayers. Old friends who phoned, texted or visited or whose visits I needed to postpone. My children who have become reluctant housekeepers. My priest who offered solace. And many more.
Let me also pay homage to the small marvels of our world from which variously I found succour. To the clouds I watched bloom and chase across the sky. To the hills, steadfast in their assurance. To food and drink. To formulaic tv programmes. To books in small doses. To social media, my other window on the world.To meditation and relaxation audios. To having a loo that is only 7 steps away!
Mostly, I’m grateful that the worst has passed. I am in respectful awe of those for whom such respite never comes.