Reflexologist: Have you shaved your feet?
Me: Yes.
[pause]
Reflexologist: Why?
Me: I have hairs on my toes and tops of my feet and it’s horrible.
Reflexologist: But shaving?
Me: Yes. I have rather a lot of hair.
[pause]
So anyway how was your week?
Reflexologist: How much hair?
Me: LOADS.
She did not say much after that.
I click the drop down arrow on Google toolbar.
Stick with it. It gets more interesting.
MindReader is behind me, sat on my mound of pillows whilst I slump back against him.
My entire google search history since I have had this laptop opens up.
“Writers Handbook 2008,” he reads. “Fahrenheit conversion celsius, and ideal body temperature,” he says, a smile cracking over his features. “US proxy server,” he says.
“I watch American TV!” I say.
“Rash legs viral, ASP rash fever, mononucleosis in bed for 6 months, how to raise platelet count, petechiae mononucleosis, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome hereditary, addison’s disease symptoms, diabetes symptoms, Magistrate’s sentencing guidelines, watch TV online, job centre plus,” he says, reaching the end of my search history.
My cheeks are flaming red as he kisses my forehead.
“It’s your life in a nutshell,” he says laughing.
“You can go on a walk, you’ve got no problems,” I say irrationally at the television.
MindReader gazes calmly at me. “What?”
I sigh. “I would never be bitter about problems if I could just stand up and go on a walk and lament about them.”
“Hmm,” MindReader says.
“She’s so lucky,” I say.
“What else is she?”
“Beautiful,” I say.
“And?”
“Tanned!”
“And?”
“Ah,” I say. “Fictional!”
“Yes!” MindReader says. “Got it in four.”
“HomeFriend came round today,” I say on the phone to MindReader.
“Oh?” he says. “How was she?”
“Good,” I say.
“What presents did she bring you?”
I smile. “A card making kit. So far I have stuck my hands together and glued everything in the box to the card, randomly.”
“Oh,” he soothes. “Maybe with a little practise you’ll be able to make birthday cards.”
“I don’t really know anyone with birthdays coming up in May,” I say.
“Um, mine?”
So I had a bath, and I thought I got the sticky marks from where the heartrate thingies went in the ambulance. And then today they have slowly appeared again, gathering fluff.
I cannot get rid of them!! Tips?
I spoon myself closer to MindReader.
“What’s our ‘thing’?” I say to him.
“Our thing?”
“You know, couples have a thing, like going to plays or hosting dinner parties.”
“Not sure,” he says, squeezing my waist.
“That’s my spleen,” I say. “It’s aching.”
“Sorry,” he says. “What was your highlight of today?”
“Not having meningitis,” I say. “Yours?”
“You not having meningitis.” He pauses. “Medical stuff,” he says.
“Yep, that’s our thing.”
For some reason today I can’t even lift my head off the pillow.
I huff and lie back to paint my newly-grown finger nails. The paint slicks on, a glossy wet line along my nail.
And that’s when I see them.
One on my ring finger. Three on my arm.
Two on my other arm.
Bright pink spots.
It’s nail varnish, I think. Until I see them on my back, my shoulders.
My mind is surprisingly clear as I walk into the kitchen for a glass, roll it over the rash, watch it clear as day underneath the pressure of the glass; spidery suns under my skin.
***
The woman on NHS direct is not as calm. “Call an ambulance,” she says. “Now.”
I still do not think as my fingers dial 999. I think of the only times I have seen these numbers – on horror films and dramas, shouted as buildings explode and people collapse.
I crumple on the phone to MadFather and MindReader. The reality of that word – meningitis – so different from the glandular fever that rolls so easily off my tongue even in the dead of the night.
“I’m on my way,” they had both said, dropping work colleagues as money quickly lost its meaning.
The paramedic is trying to distract me from the ECG sticky thingies on my arms and ankles, my pulse (125!) echoing around the ambulance. He touches my rash and goes slightly white. He chatters to me about conveyancing, his wife’s will, whether I’d sue him if it hurt when he tested my blood sugar levels.
“I need to not sit up, in the waiting room,” I say, wondering when I got so bed-ridden. “I know I look fine but I actually can’t.”
He nods as my phone jingles, interrupting the rhythm of the heart monitor. His eyebrows reach his harline and I place a hand on his arm. “It’s my phone, not my heartrate,” I say and he visibly relaxes.
He hands me over to the Accident and Emergency team and I feel strangely lost without him in his green overalls.
I am poked and prodded for a further hour. A junior doctor looks confused and says I look too well for meningitis. The registrar comes in (complete with GIANT grey beard I would like to put my hands in) and SCRATCHES at my spots, shrugging casually. A consultant comes in last.
“Taken any antibiotics lately?” he says abruptly.
“No,” I say. “I know amoxycillan can cause this rash with glandular fever.”
He raises his eyebrows. “I’m a Googler,” I explain.
“I see,” he says.
he makes me take my pants off and wear a gown. Then he pokes and prods at my buttocks (why?) and pushes his stethascope INSIDE MY BRA.
“We think you have low platelet counts, because of the mononucleosis,” he says.
“I knew that,” I say. “Does that mean I can go?”
He nods. The room is still spinning. I walk out into the car park. And then.
Relief.
The doorbell goes. I look down at my outfit. I have been meaning to have a bath all day, but have been distracted by things like America’s Next Top Model and Gossip Girl. Consequently I have added various items to my pyjamas – hot pants and vest top – as I got colder. namely, a cardigan that comes down to my thighs, and fluffy Santa Claus socks.
I figure it is probably only the postman, and Lord knows he has seen me worse.
I fling the door open. “Oh,” I say, seeing HomeFriend.
“Billygean,” she says, flinging an arm around me.
Then she pauses.
“You’re not wearing much!”
I laugh. “Is this not acceptable? I don’t socialise much,” I say with a grin.
“It’s fine,” she says, ushering me to sit back down. “I bring you gifts!” she says, presenting me with a box. “To keep you creative,” she says.
I open the box and out fall hundreds of matchsticks.
“You use the matchsticks,” she says, “and the glue, to build things.”
She places a dinner tray on my stomach. “You can even do it lying down.”
I laugh, touched. “Thank you,” I say. “I can’t believe it’s come to this, to keep me entertained.”
“I can’t believe it’s come to this generally,” she says. “Would you have done less, before, if you’d have known what would happen?”
“No,” I say, eyeing the drawings on the box, Cathedrals built up and up out of thousands of tiny matchsticks. “I would have done more.”
“Do you think you could be depressed?”
I stare at the Doctor. “Definitely,” I say, without missing a beat. “You try not leaving the house since January.”
“No, no,” he says. “Do you think you don’t want to get up because you are depressed?”
I drum my fingers on the table. “I have a temperature and a sore throat. I feel dizzy whenever I sit up. I actively fantasise about going to the supermarket. And now I’m seeing you, because I’m so desperate to sort this out. What do you think?”
The Doctor stares at me. “I need a yes or a no,” he says, and I recall all the times I’d uttered that phrase – was it possible you incorrectly identified the defendant? Is it therefore possible you made a mistake?
“No.”
“I see,” he says. “Have you tried an antidepressant?”
I huff impatiently. “No, because I don’t think any drug could take my attention away from the fact that I’m housebound. And quite frankly I’d be afraid if it could.”
“Why?”
“I am not depressed,” I say. “If I were, I would admit it. I am physically ill.”
“You could maybe try St John’s Wort, a herbal antidepressant.”
I ball my hands into fists. DoctorSister warned me doctors may do this, but I didn’t realise somebody could be so far off the mark.
“That interferes with the contraceptive pill I’m on,” I say.
“So?”
I take a deep breath. And decide to embarrass him. “What would depress me more than glandular fever,” I say, “would be to take something that ensured I couldn’t have regular sex with my boyfriend. Especially if the reason I was taking it was, irony, to cheer me up.”
He blushes. “You’re still having sex?”
“Yes,” I say smiling. I wouldn’t say I’m exactly great in the sack, I think, being able to do nothing except lie down. But MindReader and I don’t mind.
“Probably we’ll start looking at factors other than depression then,” he says. “You don’t sound depressed.”
I smile. “I know,” I say.
MindReader walks into the living room, and I rush into his arms.
“How’re you?” he says into my hair.
“Scared,” I say.
Today was not a good day. Still bed-ridden? My Doctor had said, her eyes darkening. I’m not sure this is mononucleosis we’re dealing with anymore. Tears pooled in my eyes in her little room as I sat there trying not to pretend I was exhausted from sitting up, that I felt like it was my fault my immune system can’t get rid of this virus.
She took my temperature – 101.4, more raised eyebrows – and said my throat was still sore. She shrugged slightly, clearly baffled. I think, she had said slowly, it is probably time to look for something else that is sapping your immune system.
My head burrows deeper into MindReader’s shoulder as I dread next week already: blood tests, thyroid function tests, diabetes tests.
My gaze rests on the TV over MindReader’s shoulder (he is not very tall). “Baby goats,” I say smiling. “Guess how many were in the litter?”
“Twelve?” MindReader says, squeezing my waist.
“Sixteen!” I say.
“Really? I was joking!”
“Where are you on having sixteen baby goats living in our flat with us?” I say, “when I’m well.”
“Mostly against it,” MindReader says, and I snuggle closer to him.
