Day 196-352 (Part 2): I Thought I Was Recovering... Turns Out My Body Had Other Plans!

1 day ago
4 min read

So there I was…

Completely convinced I was just taking a little bit longer than everyone else to recover.

Because that’s what we all do, isn’t it?

We compare ourselves to absolutely everyone.

“Oh, Susan at work had Covid and she was fine after ten days.”

“My neighbour was back at the gym after three weeks.”

“My cousin ran a half marathon six weeks later.”

Brilliant.

Good for Susan.

Well done, neighbour.

Congratulations, cousin.

Meanwhile I was celebrating the fact I’d managed to wash my hair without needing a lie down afterwards.

Honestly, the bar had become embarrassingly low.

The strange thing was, I didn’t actually feel ill anymore.

Not properly.

I wasn’t coughing.

I didn’t have a temperature.

My nose wasn’t producing enough snot to fill a paddling pool.

I just…

Didn’t feel like me.

It’s really hard to explain unless you’ve experienced it yourself.

Imagine someone quietly turned your battery down to about 18%.

Technically, everything still works.

You can still send texts. Still make phone calls. Still open apps.

But the whole time you’re desperately looking for a charger because you know you’re not going to last much longer.

That was me.

Every.

Single.

Day.

I’d wake up already tired.

How is that even possible?

I’d had eight hours in bed.

Sometimes ten.

Sometimes I’d even have an afternoon nap because apparently I was now eighty-seven years old.

Yet I’d wake up feeling exactly as tired as when I’d gone to sleep.

Honestly, what was I doing overnight?

Competing in the Sleep Olympics?

Running marathons in my dreams?

Fighting crime?

Because I certainly wasn’t waking up refreshed.

Then came the guilt.

Oh, the guilt.

I don’t think anyone talks enough about that.

When people can see you’ve got a broken leg, they tell you to rest.

When they can see you’re in plaster, they carry your shopping.

When you’ve got a hidden illness…

Even you start questioning yourself.

I cannot tell you how many times I called myself lazy.

I’d look at the washing basket and think…

“Oh for God’s sake, Jabatha. Just put the bloody washing on.”

Except my body would answer…

“Nah.”

Not because I physically couldn’t.

Because the thought of doing it felt like someone had asked me to climb Snowdon carrying a tumble dryer.

That sounds ridiculous.

I know it sounds ridiculous.

It sounded ridiculous to me.

I’d actually have little arguments with myself.

“Stop being stupid.”

“It’s only a washing basket.”

“People work twelve-hour shifts.”

“Get a grip.”

Looking back now, I wish I’d been kinder to myself.

At the time, though, I genuinely thought I was just becoming lazy.

Then there was shopping.

Can we all just agree that supermarkets are unnecessarily massive?

Who designed Tesco? Christopher Columbus?

Why is milk always approximately four postcodes away from the entrance?

Why do I need ten thousand steps just to buy bread?

Honestly, by the time I’d reached the fruit and veg aisle I was ready to submit a change of address.

I’d find myself leaning on the trolley.

Not because I particularly wanted to.

Because somehow it made me feel… steadier.

Again…

Didn’t question it.

Just accepted it.

Funny, isn’t it?

How quickly we adapt to things without ever asking ourselves why.

I’d deliberately choose a trolley when all I needed was toothpaste and cat food.

Anyone watching would’ve thought I was planning a weekly shop.

Nope.

I was using it as emotional support.

The cats, meanwhile, remained blissfully unaware that their mother was slowly falling apart.

Their biggest concern was whether breakfast was arriving on time.

To be fair, I admire that level of confidence.

Imagine living your life with Molly’s attitude.

Wake up.

Demand food.

Sleep for six hours.

Wake up.

Demand more food.

Judge everyone.

Repeat.

She’s got life absolutely sorted.

Then came the weather.

Now, anyone who knows me knows I absolutely love the sunshine.

Or at least...I used to.

I was the first person to suggest a beer garden.

A beach.

A barbecue.

Anything involving warmth.

Then spring arrived.

And something really odd started happening.

Everyone else would walk outside saying…

“Ooh, isn’t it lovely?”

I’d walk outside and within minutes I’d feel absolutely dreadful.

Cold.

Hot.

Weak.

A bit wobbly.

Like somebody had quietly unplugged me.

The first few times I just laughed it off.

“Oh, I must be getting soft.”

Then I started avoiding sitting in the sun.

Then I started looking for shade everywhere.

Then I became that person who checked the weather forecast before deciding whether to leave the house.

Not because I was worried about rain.

Because I was worried about sunshine.

Who even am I?

Over twenty years of living in Britain waiting for decent weather…

Now I was actively praying for clouds.

Honestly, if you’d told me six months earlier I’d one day celebrate an overcast Tuesday, I’d have suggested you needed professional help.

The really bizarre thing was…

The warmer I got…

The worse I felt.

I’d stand in a queue somewhere warm and suddenly become ridiculously aware of my heart.

Not painful.

Just…

Fast.

Very fast.

Like it’d decided we were entering the final sprint at the London Marathon despite the fact I was literally standing next to someone buying lottery tickets.

It made absolutely no sense.

Neither did walking upstairs.

Some days I’d get to the top and have to pretend I was admiring a picture on the wall while secretly waiting for my heartbeat to calm down.

Other days I’d carry a basket of washing and feel like I’d just completed Tough Mudder.