On 30 December, 2021, my throat started hurting and I began repeatedly sneezing and I realised I was getting some kind of cold. I was staying in a house with countless other people, some of them possibly 'vulnerable' (although all three times vaccinated). Panic gripped me. What if I killed someone by infecting them with the scythe-wielding virus that has stalked us all for over two years now?
Luckily, someone had a test kit, and it turned out I was not suffering from the monster. All the same, I went on feeling rather awful, coughing and feeling generally fairly out of sorts. I did tests from time to time and each one came back negative. It must be hypochondria, I thought, dragging myself through the days, functioning well below normal, my appetite diminished - (although, being me, I ate on steadfastly, regardless) - listless and increasingly feeling that life was barely worth living. Occasionally, I'd do another test, just to see if I'd been got by the virus - it is supposed to be so catching and so dangerous, after all.
Finally, this Monday, having once again tested negative, I sent my doctor a tentative email: I didn't have the virus so I understood that she might not want to be bothered with me, but I had been feeling rather lousy, for some unknown reason, for more than a month. She graciously slotted me into her schedule later that day.
I arrived at her office full of apologies. I didn't want to bother her, when there was a real illness about, but somehow, despite not having THAT illness, I did still feel sick.
Bronchitis, it turned out. That was the problem. Contrary to what I'd begun to believe, there are other things that can make you unwell - and, by the time I went to see her, it had got quite bad.
Three cheers for antibiotics. Boo to tunnel vision. Hurray that I at last feel vaguely on the mend.
