Where Emma battles the common cold
Dearest Readers, I want to apologise to your spouses, children, dogs and significant others. It seems lots of you are sharing the contents of this email but you know…1st rule of Who Stole My Dopamine? You do not talk about WSMD! Actually, scrap that, share lots! It makes me ridiculously happy, thank you.
You want to know what’s worst about not being 20 anymore? It’s not the lack of a carefree lifestyle or less than perky tits; it’s the being bone-dead knackered. All. The. Bloody. Time. Seriously, even without bastarding Parkinson’s, I wake up more tired than when I went to bed…usually before 9 pm. I mean 9 pm?! My 20 something self is having a fit.
Which leads me to my fight with the common cold. My household has been felled this week with a real swampy-coughy-snot souper.
It seems profoundly unfair that when you already have a degenerative disease to then get a cold on top. I certainly find it leads to wild symptoms. The usual triggers of stress, overwhelm, cold, damp weather and/or annoying teens all seem to go out the window and in comes a madness. A cough can set off a dystonic foot, a mild fever leads to an array of random words being gibbered in an attempt at ‘normal’ communication. And don’t even start on what a touch of earache does to already wonky balance! I might as well be punching myself in the head - it would seem saner.
I have no doubt that many of you reading this have a similar experience; add in medication and yeehaw!
Now I know I’m moaning about something pretty unimportant but it’s frustrating when you live under a shadow. The spectre of how many ‘good’ days do I have in me? Weights itself on your shoulders pressing, pushing, until you drop to your knees in surrender.
We balance our days, weeks and months careful not to over plan, over commit. Afraid of another cancellation, or broken promise because our house-of-cards bodies tumble. I am exhausted making plans with the eternal caveat: well, assuming Mr Parkinson doesn’t fuck it up.
Years ago, in a life far, far away I lived in Africa. I had the joy of contracting a nice virulent strain of malaria. For many years I had recurring bouts until the parasite in my wine addled liver got so drunk it has been subdued*. However, I have the ghost of a fear that as my Parkinson riddled body gets less resilient that little parasite will put in an appearance. Given that I have been fighting a simple cold for a few weeks and largely it’s got the better of me I worry what a dose of malaria would do.
*Not ‘medically accurate’ 🤷🏼♀️
Damn Mr P. He feeds my worries, paranoia and delights when my stress notches up the dial and he gets out to play. ‘Shakey, shakey, wobble, wobble’
Maybe that’s the other loss of not being 20 anymore: we know we aren’t invincible. Bugger.
It’s time for me to get back under the duvet, drink the ginger tea, and watch old Miss Marple films.*
*Starring the irrepressible Margaret Rutherford, of course.
P.S Torment your friends and family by sharing this letter!