H1N1 is not a postcode! - A cautionary tale

Valentine’s Day, Pancake Day, Chinese New Year, and the start of Lent.

Can it really be February already? Where has my life gone?

H1N1 is not a UK postcode. But, it is a destination.  A very bad destination!

Dear Reader, this is a cautionary tale. 

Swine flu is no joke. The past two and a half weeks of my life are a largely a blur wherein I have struggled valiantly to remain conscious and vertical; somehow managed to move house, and miraculously gave a coherent, week long series of Shakespeare lectures at the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust.

I can honestly say, I did these things, and much more, only by the assistance of the legendary “force” of Luke Skywalker/Star Wars fame.

Just over three weeks ago, I went to the leisure club one evening for a swim. As is my wont, following my dip in the pool, I rewarded myself with a ‘melt’ in the steam room. While in the steam room, I was joined by a chap who had just finished his workout in the gym. 

As one does, we chatted about the bad weather, and the need to work out more. Shortly within the conversation, my steam room companion revealed that he has had swine flu in the past few days.

Germ-phobe that I am, I was seized by panic and dread instantly. With tact and moderate haste, I excused myself from the steam room. I assured myself quietly that my worst imaginings were unfounded and purely irrational. However, less than 3 days later, I was laid low completely with a high, raging fever.

Day after day, as the illness wore on and on, I blamed myself  -- for not getting the swine flu vaccine. The NHS has been quite adamant about encouraging people to get the vaccine; particularly, those with long-standing conditions, such as asthma, and those in special circumstances, e.g., pregnant women, and those trying to conceive.

In fact, early on, the NHS went so far as to release a statement recommending that women who were thinking of/planning to conceive seriously reconsider, and postpone attempts to conceive due to the potential dangers of swine flu.

My GP – a wonderful lady doctor, originally from South Africa – urged me to get the vaccine, but I thought I knew best. I thought the whole swine flu thing was “much of a much-ness,” that people were making a great deal of fuss over nothing. 

I was wrong!

I have never felt so awful in my life! There were times when I wondered, quite sincerely, whether I could or would ever get better. Sounds quite dramatic, I know, but it is very true.  Three weeks later, and I am still recovering.

The one, superficial benefit from all this is that I have lost nearly half a stone (roughly 5-7 lbs.) of weight as a result of this health nightmare.

Tough lesson learned. 

Chaos theory

A few weeks ago, a friend of mine (who adamantly opposed my leaving New York/moving to England) left a poignant message on my Facebook page:

"Don't forget, lovie: wherever you go, there you are. Watch and listen closely for any repetitive speech or behaviour or situation to make sure that all the frustrations you left behind (and behind and behind) are truly location-specific detritus and not stuff you're carrying around with you."

On days like today, I wonder if he’s right. I am just shy of the “2 months in” point, and I have fallen into chaos. I've mentioned the broken tooth – while eating popcorn of all things! – and “the cold,” and the resulting desire for Tylenol. Well, now, all hell has broken loose! 

The cold, turned into a cough, and last night the cough triggered what felt like the onset of an asthma attack – I've had one of these before, not something I’d like to repeat – the D.E.B. dutifully rushed me to Warwick Hospital, where I was seen—within half an hour I might add—by the “Out of Hours G.P. (General Practitioner)” at the Extended Hours Service Centre. No camping out in a messy, noisy, germ-riddled Emergency Room here, thank you very much.  The doctor was very helpful, patient, and cute. But I digress.

It turns out that:

a.) my allergies have gone hay-wire, triggering my asthma, which has been relatively dormant while I was living in New York; 

b.) the “ringing in my ears” is the result of a ruptured ear drum (!?!), caused by an ear infection I didn’t realize I'd had,

and,

c.) I have a cold. 

Dare I ask the heavens, “What else?”

So, here I lie, on a beautiful, Thursday morning, in bed. When I could/should be up and out in my new world: morning prayer at St. Peter’s, walking Lucy across the Barford playing field, taking my body for my 5K loop to Sherbourne and back, &etc.

And of course, our bodies pick the worse possible timing when it comes to being ill. I have a long week ahead. Tonight, the D.E.B. and I have tickets to see David Tennant (the current Dr. Who) in Love’s Labours Lost at the RSC. These tickets are GOLD DUST! We have fabulous seats—thanks to my connections at the Shakespeare Trust—and there I shall be, hacking away, trying not to bring up a lung in the front row. Brilliant.

Today is also the day when I should be making an appearance at The Shakespeare Institute, at the weekly “Thursday Seminar,” a.k.a. weekly “Shakespeare Schmooze Fest.” Tomorrow night, the D.E.B. and I are carousing with friends at a culinary event, “Claridge’s Night,” at Stratford College. What a joy my fellow diners will have with me sputtering over their foie gras.

Festivities continue through the weekend. Sunday, D.E.B. is performing at a charity event in Warwick (He is a darling, truly.) and in the evening we are going to see American folk diva, Diane Ponzio in concert in Stratford.

I am grateful to have such an active and full social life. And I am even more grateful that the D.E.B. has friends that are actually, really wonderful, and whom I actually, really, honestly like and enjoy!

My stress and angst are down to my own poor planning. I am scheduled to give two, separate, Shakespeare lectures in Stratford next week on Tuesday and Thursday. I have known about both of them for quite some time. Am I prepared? Am I ready?       

I think the word Gordon Ramsay uses is “shambolic.” If “procrastination” were a country, I would be its Queen. My upcoming lecture at The Shakespeare Institute next week is only the most significant lecture of my academic career. Why not wait until the week before to flip out, and panic about it? Oh, yeah. And then, get sick.

Perhaps, some things don’t change, no matter where you are.

 

 

Curious week in Barford...

Highlights of this past week:

Broke a tooth. Completed my first W.I. duties. And yet another attempt at “church shopping.”

I also baked a horrendous Banana Bread Loaf this week--on Sunday--that had all the light, airy texture of a cast-iron brick. Must note that said failed Banana Loaf was not the cause of aforementioned broken tooth. I broke my tooth eating popcorn. While watching a movie! What is the world coming to? Found a dentist in Stratford-upon-Avon, no problem. Got an appointment for the very next day. Dental procedure took less than half an hour, and wasn’t too expensive.  Go, British Healthcare System!

My first duties for the Barford W.I. consisted of delivering flyers door-to-door from my end of Wellesbourne Road to the bridge and back, for the upcoming “Grand Auction of Promises.”  The Auction proceeds will benefit the soon-to-be-opened Barford Shop! (Sainsbury’s will finally have some local competition here in leafy Barford!) A gander at the prizes for the auction will illustrate the caliber of my new neighbo(u)rhood: a bottle of House of Commons whisky; “cream tea for 2 in the Cotswolds in a chauffer driven Classic 1977 Jaguar Coupe”,  “Champagne and canapés followed by river trip and supper for 6 adults”; 1 week’s accommodation in a flat in Javea, Spain (between Alicante and Valencia); and “a quantity of farmyard manure (delivery if required)”. God, I love this place.

The quest for the “new spiritual home” continues. The D.E.B., bless him, has given up for now. I think he has just resigned himself to attend whichever place I finally settle on.  That is, if I am ever able to actually settle on any one place...  This week I tried the Collegiate Church of St. Mary (C of E) in Warwick. Fabulous.  I mean, it's not every day that a girl gets to take Communion in a church that has it’s own 10^th century crypt!

On the surface, I felt I had finally found the “Mother Ship”. Up-market, well-heeled, coolly Episcopalian-looking congregation; all-male choristers, decked and trimmed in dazzling red and white, high-necked regalia; massive pipe organ bellowing a Bach Prelude; did I mention the Norman crypt?

Yes, even without the ‘smells and bells’ that I so desperately long and pine for (what is it with English Anglicans and their anti-smoke/incense stance?), this place had most, if not all, of the pomp and circumstance I think God deserves, though doesn’t require.  Besides, any church that has its own “Choir Librarian” wins in my book! I mean, now that is just sexy…in a spiritual way, of course.

The Norman crypt is the oldest part of the church and dates back to 1123.  I crept down the cold, ash coloured stones to the crypt, and found, alongside the slabs of the long dead, the remnants of a medieval "Ducking Stool".  I could not believe my eyes, nor could my hands resist. I closed my eyes and ran my hands over the wheel and wooden flanks of this intricate torture device. I dug my fingers into a hole where a spoke had long gone missing, relishing the thought of collecting some medieval dust under my nails. I wanted to touch, smell and sense the past, those frightening and confusing times. They thought they were living in the end times. But still life went on, and still life goes on. Perhaps each generation of people believes their time is the only time, the most important, painful, or significant. And still, we go on.

A note on the wall reminded me that the "Ducking Stool" was used as an implement of punishment for: “Dishonest bakers, brewers of unadulterated beer, scolding wives, women of immoral character or those suspected of witchcraft, and quarrelsome married couples.” Happy times, indeed.

I left St. Mary’s beaming, basking in the bright October sunlight, and the thought that: “Yes, I’ve found it.” But, just as I was passing through the church’s massive, beautiful garden, the collegiate bells rang out, thundering the arrival of the noon hour; my heart broke with the thought of little St. Peter’s back in Barford. So humble, so small, so modest by comparison. 

The vicar had asked me at Morning Prayer this past Thursday, if he would see me at service on Sunday, he had planned to “welcome us” during the service. I had hemmed and hawed ("hummed and hawed" in Brit English), knowing I was had planned to go to St. Mary’s for a “bigger and better” experience. I feel so awful now. A place like St. Peter’s needs people like me. Am I looking a gift horse in the mouth? St. Peter’s may not be everything I want, but it may be what I need. And maybe, it is a place that needs me, instead of the other way around. Perhaps that is the lesson I am meant to learn in all this.