I’ve just recovered from an inflammation which forced me to spend a week in bed and only go out for food essentials, despite the early October t-shirt weather which I really wanted to be in. I was on antibiotics which felt like a big deal as it’s only the second time in my life – the first being when I accidentally sliced my thumb in a school chemistry lesson. Each time I swallowed the bulky pills, trying not to retch, I gave silent thanks to science and congratulated myself for never once googling my symptoms.
Of course, the dentist who gave me my prescription used a word to describe what might be my problem but thankfully I didn’t understand his prognosis and then my mouth was busy being x-rayed. All I know is that the inflammation was accompanied by a common cold (yes, they still exist in this world of superpower viral infections) and I reckon that the cold and inflammation came as a have one and get one for free.
Whilst I was writhing in pain, sometimes even imagining my demise was imminent, I thought about how people who have covid must feel because what doesn’t alleviate pain is being isolated. As I spontaneously wept in the dentist chair, the assistant took about a minute to rub my upper back and say, “there there!” and that felt wonderful and much better than the needle I’d been fantasizing that the dentist would put in my inner cheek to numb the pain. Then another miraculously healing moment happened after I posted on the Nextdoor app, asking for tips to get me through hell. Within hours there were almost one hundred sympathetic replies of from-experience-advice. Out of all the messages there was only one person who decided to stir rather than serve up, by commenting negatively on other people’s messages. Scrolling practical and alternative remedies, I felt like I was being spoon-fed an elixir called Trust in Humanity and although it was up to me to choose which recommendations to follow, my hope was replenished by these stranger angels.
On the seventh night, although still alternating between a pillow of frozen peas and a hot water bottle, I finally had that energetic restlessness that indicates you’ve passed the worst. It was after 2am – naturally pain had disrupted my sleep pattern – but I wasn’t worried to be awake because I’d been going to bed every night around nine. I got up on a mission to drink tea. Now that my cold had subsided, I was eager to have milk in it and not more lemon, ginger and honey; so with a hooded coat on, I set off up the road to my local garage about eight minutes away.
On that walk I was amazed to see how I was delighting in the most ordinary of things – a couple passing hand in hand, silhouetted trees, the deep dark sky, a pretty blue light from an electric car charger. How could days of physical suffering and loneliness make me feel like I’d just arrived on planet earth? Imagine what a time I then had on meeting two random blokes at the garage shop window who were ordering sliced bread (“white or brown?” said the vendor behind his screen) and cheese (they were going to make toasties) and deliberating over what flavour crisps to buy. In true we’ve-had-a-few-bevvies-and-feel-at-one-with-the-world style, these two strangers let me join in on the ‘action’ and took my suggestion to go for cheese and onion flavour.
So happy was I to be included that when the garage card machine wouldn’t accept their credit card after two attempts, I offered to pay in cash for these guys provisions. Eventually the machine worked, warm good-byes were exchanged, and it was my turn to interact with this (offline) human managing the garage and who I, after receiving my half pint of milk, thanked wholeheartedly as if he were the host of a party. Back home I had my cuppa and went back to sleep, little knowing that the next day I would no longer be in pain.
