On being ill

I have been ill. Not with some serious ‘let’s see what the tests show up’ kind of illness, but with a ‘oh help I am not going to be able to get to work tomorrow’ kind of illness. I hate it, or most of it.

The worst bit is the slow realisation that, no, just taking it a bit easy and having a cup of tea is not going to fix this one. One is going to have to give in, admit one is ill and go to bed. Once the really acute phase has passed, there follows the more-or-less pleasant bit. One has tacit permission to take it easy. As long as one lies there and does almost nothing, one feels fairly good. It is nice to be able to enjoy listening to the radio (as long as The Archers are not on – that used-to-be pleasure is ended for the time being) and to think about reading, and to dwarm.

When I was a child I used to spin this out as long as I could, lying there, food brought at intervals, reading and ‘giving my ducks words’ and enjoying warmth and comfort. In the end however, indulgent parents would suss out incipient recovery.

Then comes the next horrid bit. One has to get up and to pretend to be well. One feels grim, and things which before the illness were easy are now like mini mountains, each needing struggled up. This is the stage I am currently failing-to-enjoy. To well to be ill and too ill to be well.

What I long for is the next stage, which I think intellectually will indeed come, though emotional faith in it is hard to find. The day when one wakes up and actually wants to get up. When doing something is pleasant and easy and fulfilling.

Like a warm day of sun and no snow and ice, it is hard to believe in.

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