Well, I had every intention of making 2019 a good year, but 4 months in, I have to say it's a bit shite.
Most days for the last 2 months it's been a struggle to get out of bed. No, not the Black Dog, although the click click of its nasty little claws patter about in the recesses of my mind now and then as I haul myself up, gingerly place my feet on the floor and wonder how much will it hurt today?
Most days, the answer is - a lot.
So..... this is what Ross River Virus feels like. Its other name is Epidemic Polyarthritis. Ouch.
The mozzies this year have been dreadful - clouds of them, nasty bitey little monsters who attack in squadrons and leave victims flapping helplessly (and futilely) at two or three simultaneous bite-zones. Bastards. And it only takes one of them to bring you down. I hope I managed to splat whichever one it was that got me.
I used up all my sick leave in the first 2 weeks, way back in late February, so now I hobble in to work, thankful that my shifts are short. Sometimes holding a pen is difficult. Bending down to reshelve books on the bottom shelf is - unpleasant - and keeping the smile on my face when all I want to do is cry, or go home to have a little lie-down, is getting harder every day. Nerve pain in my right arm and hand - the joint swelling appears to have exacerbated my not-too-bad carpal tunnel problem - wakes me up in the night, most nights.
It's cruel. There were two consecutive days last week when, for the first time in 2 months, I had NO PAINS in my feet! I was so sure I'd "turned a corner". Perhaps I had, but there was another brick wall waiting there for me and I splattered headlong into it. Fuck.
The pains and swellings in my extremities are one thing, but the blow to my energy is perhaps the most cruel. My calendar painting is very behind schedule. My house and garden are a mess. I get hungry but have zero energy or motivation to cook. I eat a lot of biscuits. I've gained three kilograms. I miss my walks.
I've painted a fairly bleak picture, haven't I? Come on, shines, where's the silver lining?
This is the bit where I tell you how wonderful it is to be part of this small community. Wonderful friends have leapt to my aid, mowing the lawn, pruning, providing meals, firewood and a hot water bottle; offers of errands and shopping have abounded, and I've never had so many hugs. I love you all, my lovely, kind-hearted friends.
Abundant birdlife, visible from the kitchen and lounge-room windows, has been extremely entertaining. This is the time of year that the bowerbirds descend, stealing the chook pellets, splashing in the birdbaths and doing all sorts of interesting things. And I've read a LOT of great books.
Another thing that makes it bearable, believe it or not, is dispassionately observing the path of this stupid ailment as though I'm somebody else - an outsider watching with a sort of weird fascination as a rash appears and disappears, as random fingers swell and subside, as knuckles or ankles disappear and reappear. [Side note: this may not a good thing to tell a GP, especially if you are a middle-aged woman. It could go either way, really - you might be thanked for your accurate observations because they've been helpful in the eventual diagnosis of your debilitating, rapid-onset mystery illness, but you could just as easily be accused of neuroticism or somatisation.]
One more good thing - Ross River Virus, while incurable, is self-limiting. This too, will pass. I still have high hopes of 2019. Pass the aspirin, please!
