Get Well Soon Read online

  For Elena, of course

  Contents

  Part One No Cure

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Part Two Cure . . . ?

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  ‘I don’t feel well.’ Woody Allen, Hannah and Her Sisters

  Part One

  NO CURE

  Prologue

  One early spring morning, three years into what I laughably hope will prove the defining illness of my life, I find myself sitting opposite a woman in her sun-drenched suburban living room as she tells me about the rise and rise of alternative therapy. She is part of that rise, an independent therapist who mixes elements of hypnotherapy with the purportedly beneficial convergence of mind, consciousness and thought. I nod earnestly as she talks, and I say ‘right’, and ‘okay’, and ‘yes’. But I cannot quite get a foothold into what it is she, or it, actually does, how it helps, or how I can teach myself to do it for general betterment. But she is nice, and I find I want to make the effort. She tells me that she brings her teaching to bear on an array of modern health issues. Her website reports considerable success. Everything she says makes sense, the words sliding together in neat little rows like agreeable dominoes whose dots align. But when I read up on it later, I’m still a little lost, the sensation uncomfortably redolent of all those lessons at school in which I was doomed to fail.

  For example. These principles she expounds upon, when employed successfully, point towards a pre-existing logic that explains human experience. ‘Right,’ I think. ‘Okay.’ It represents a renaissance of the mind based on universal constants that uncover our innate natural resilience. ‘Yes,’ I agree. But then I think: ‘Huh?’

  I need to understand all this, at root level, because if I do maybe I will become better, and I am not better yet. This is all comparatively new territory for me, territory I thought I would never have to map, but I do, and so here I am. I am still very much a beginner in all this, with much to learn. I’m feeling my way through.

  I know, at least, why I’m here talking to the nice lady who is fundamentally not, by anybody’s standards, a doctor. I was unwell for ages, a long time. I didn’t get better. Because my symptoms were vague, almost elliptical, and didn’t show up on X-rays or in blood tests, they were difficult to confirm, to correctly diagnose or act upon. I fell through NHS cracks, and because I did not meet the required criteria for further intervention, I was on my own. I had tried the prescriptions, and all the pills. I had been referred to specialists who developed sudden itches in my presence, and scratched their heads. But then mine was the kind of condition that came with multiple theories attached, and little in the way of a standard pathology. All I really knew of it was this: that the starting point had been a virus. The virus had caused my blood vessels to constrict, and my blood flow to diminish. My adrenal response skyrocketed. My mitochondria had become dysfunctional. I crashed.

  Naturally, I comprehended very little of this, but the reading I did into it suggested I was in good company: millions of people were experiencing negative adrenal responses too, and dysfunctions of their mitochondrias, and so were presumably feeling much like I was, like a tuning fork struck hard, the vibrations continuing to ring through my body almost constantly. In such a state, life as I had known it was impossible to sustain.

  The abnormal state endured, displaying impressive staying power. It was at the point I feared it might come to define me for ever that I decided to do something that, for me, was radical, and cross the Rubicon from one form of medicine which I didn’t much understand but had unquestioning faith in, to another which seemed to me the stuff of parody, patchouli-scented and hung suspended in a purple haze. But people, strangers, said it worked, and that would do because it had to. Scepticism, on which I had previously thrived, no longer served my best interests. I had to find another way.

  Initially I had a problem with this because surely there wasn’t another way? In my life, there had only ever been the GP, whose advice over the years I had sought infrequently. If she was now not in a position to help me out, what then? The last time I saw her on this matter, her farewell words to me were ominous ones: good luck.

  Don’t we make our own luck?

  One

  A wise man – not Confucius, somebody else – once said that we spend the first 40 years of our lives trying to kill ourselves, and the next 40 trying to stay alive.

  I spent the first 40 of mine in a perpetual rush. Everything I did I did in a kind of fast-forward, as if in a race towards some imagined finish line, a gold medal to the winner. I ran when I could have walked, and when I walked, I did so briskly, much faster than my wife, who lagged leisurely behind. I worked a lot, all the time, often too much, evenings, weekends, birthdays, and thrilled to every deadline met. I rarely relaxed, but then who needs to relax? In my downtime, I went out for fast walks, for bike rides, shopping, to see friends. I read books, many books, the pile never diminishing because I never stopped buying more. I was always very aware of the pile, earmarking the next book to read before finishing the current one, and earmarking the one after that, too. In the pool, even though I have never been a strong swimmer, always needing to catch my breath after the completion of each length, I would nevertheless try to swim faster than the person in the next lane. Just for fun, a little harmless competition. I was victorious at least 80 per cent of the time, the person I had beaten completely unaware. On my bike, I would instinctively pedal as fast as I could go, faster still when approaching traffic lights, slipping through amber with great satisfaction. If a journey required 20 minutes, I’d complete it in 12, 13; 10 if I went flat out, which I often did. I travelled for work, and once off the aeroplane would always overtake every other passenger in my path, the first to passport control, to the cab rank. At the hotel, a quick shower and then out into the unfamiliar city to ensure I got to know it as thoroughly as one could in 48, 72 hours, strolling its streets, getting happily lost, new adventures around every corner. I was always tired, always complaining about it, but it never seemed to matter, not really. I slept well, I recovered, and ploughed on. After the children were born, they passed on every germ that came their way, and so I was perpetually sniffing, drowsy, battling fevers, tonsillitis and, more than once, worms. Each weekend, we’d head into town somewhere, browsing the city’s streets and parks and zoos and markets, rain or shine, taking full advantage of everything the capital had to offer. My life was full, and full of challenge. It took plenty out of me, but life takes plenty out of everybody. I loved it.

  But then, incrementally enough to ultimately take me unawares, it all became a bit too much, and though I couldn’t know it, and wouldn’t have accepted it even if I had known it, things were approaching an emphatic full stop. In blissful ignorance, I was doing things that I would not be able to do again for some considerable time. I took my last long cycle ride in the country, I forget where exactly, someplace south, near Devon, my wife by my side, the girls strapped into child seats behind us, eight miles through pretty, winding lanes, then off-road through woodland, uphill to where the view was, as the leaflet had promised, breathtaking.

  ‘Look, girls. Look at the view.’

  They were fast asleep, heads lolling at 45-degree angles.

  I took my last flight, 11 hours west, which had been an all too regular journey for me, but th
is time with the added novelty of First Class, as if the universe was wise to what was lurking in my immediate future and was seeing me off for the final time in style.

  ‘More champagne, sir?’

  It was 10 o’clock on a damp Tuesday morning. ‘Why not?’

  I took my last daily swim, enjoying the thrill of the freezing water that, one length in, turned out not to be freezing at all. My last wallow in the jacuzzi with its strange sulphuric smell, its water slick, almost oily, and the familiar horror when it shot up my nose and slid down the back of my throat to settle queasily in my stomach.

  My last restaurant meal with friends, the last time I’d be able to drink wine, the last time, even, I would be able to walk to the corner shop without thinking about it, as if it, the very action of walking, were the most natural thing in the world.

  In February 2009, I had been in America for work, and shared a four-hour car journey with someone who said they really should be at home, in bed, convalescing. He had had flu, he told me, a more severe strain than he had ever experienced. People were saying that it had originated in southern California and northern Mexico, and that it might have come from birds, always a bad sign. He was over the worst of it now, but still, boy, it was terrible. He had felt awful, a carcass. He laughed as he said this, and so, politely, I laughed back. Later, in the evening, we shared another four-hour journey back to the hotel, and I counted every sneeze that caught him unawares, every cough he failed to catch.

  The following day was a long one, in which I was required to watch musicians walk on a red carpet I myself was not permitted on, and it culminated in food, drink and a hot bath to compound the jet lag and offer up the possibility of sleep.

  I awoke the morning after, and went across the road to a Starbucks for breakfast. It was in the queue, already full with office workers in bright white trainers, that I began to feel strange, dizzy, disoriented, the simple placing of one foot in front of the other suddenly a challenge as mental as it was physical. I purchased my coffee and croissant, and sat by the window, book in hand. But I could not focus on the words on the page. My appetite evaporated. Moments later I was stumbling back across the road to the hotel, the urge to lie down a powerful one. I sat on my bed, then lay across it, then got bored, then went out, convinced all I needed was some fresh air. The walk to Book Soup took 20 minutes, much of it up a gradual incline. It felt like forever. Once there, I couldn’t read the letters on the spines, my vision blurred. I sat for a few moments on the small stepladder people used to access the higher shelves. Somebody asked if I was okay. ‘You don’t look well, buddy.’ I left the shop, stumbling back outside. I needed a cab, but there were none. The walk back was long.

  In my room, things were happening fast. I was hot and cold and heavy. I couldn’t move. I tried to sleep, in vain. My flight home was in nine hours. I needed to pack. The phone rang. I couldn’t reach it. It rang again, and this time I could. It was front desk telling me that I should have checked out by now. I must have slept, after all. Front desk said that I was facing a $50 surcharge unless I vacated in the next quarter hour. I remained in bed another two hours, the sheets soaked in my sweat, and twisted beneath me. Shortly after one, I stumbled downstairs, lightheaded and feverish. The receptionist called a doctor, and handed me the phone. The doctor was happy to come and see me right away, he said. He sounded eager. His callout fee was $350.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I told him.

  ‘Don’t hang up! ’ he shouted. I was taken aback by the shouting; I hadn’t intended to hang up on him. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘how about $290?’ I thanked him all the same. ‘Okay, okay.’ He was sounding exasperated now. ‘$250, low as I can go.’

  I wasn’t used to haggling for medical care, and explained that I didn’t think I really needed it. It was flu, presumably the same flu the man in the car had had, the one from birds. I told him again I’d be fine. I would go and see my GP as soon as I got home. The doctor, his voice resigned now, recommended some medicine, ‘the strongest over-the-counter available’, and wished me a safe flight.

  The fever ratcheted up. I could not stand or sit. Everything itched and ached. I thought I might pass out. A cab came. The nearest pharmacy, I said, then the airport. The small print on the box said one capsule every four hours, do not exceed the stated dose. Fearful I would be too ill to be permitted to board the plane, I swallowed two.

  The next two weeks were a blur, but during this time I was the illest I had been. Almost no food at all, and I only took water when Elena, my wife, insisted on it. Days and nights passed, all of them jumbled together. One night, shortly before dawn, I found myself in the shower, curled up on the floor, teeth chattering furiously, and wondered how I had got there. I had never been delirious before. It was an almost fun sensation. But not quite.

  I got better, eventually, the virus relegated to little more than a war wound I carried with me the way people, stereotypically men, do. If I never felt quite as good as I had before it, as fit and healthy and hale, then this was a small factor I chose not to dwell on. I was getting older, after all, so this was presumably merely a symptom of that most inescapable of fates. After another year of frequent colds, nothing serious, and plenty of worms, I was hit by flu again, a milder strain this time, but it still wiped out all of Christmas and the New Year celebrations. It wasn’t until the second week of January that I felt strong enough to venture out, and I can still remember the novelty of being in the crisp open air amid the bustle of careless shoppers, each as impatient as I always had been to reach their destination ahead of time, to steal back seconds from the clock. Right now, I didn’t feel like one of them. Instead, I was a caricature of an old man, taking my time, counting my footsteps. Halfway to the shopping centre, I saw a public bench I had never previously noticed. An elderly lady was sitting at one end, nosing through her plastic shopping bags. For a few moments I sat self-consciously alongside her, then texted a friend about my plight. She joked that I was indeed an old man now, that I would never be the same again.

  A few days later, health restored, that most humdrum of miracles, I resumed my daily routine. Mid-morning, I stopped work and went for a swim. It felt good to be back, racing unwitting strangers, and winning. Within 24 hours, the flu symptoms returned. Frustrated, I rested for a few more days. Then, better again, I returned to the pool. The next morning, I could not get out of bed.

  My legs began to feel the strain of cycling, and whenever I attempted, because of course I always did, to speed up and slip through on amber, thighs pumping like pistons, I paid the price for it afterwards, my muscles on fire, and experiencing a level of physical exhaustion that left me reeling. Sprawled out on the sofa was the only recovery position.

  I was blithe about it, unconcerned. I tried to get on with life as normal, but the cold and flu symptoms, the shocking bursts of total wipeout, refused to let me. I stopped swimming, my trunks hanging forlorn and ignored on the bathroom’s doorknob. I cycled more slowly, and much less. One afternoon, several weeks later, I was late for my train, and ran for it, jumping through the fast diminishing space between the closing doors with a familiar sense of satisfaction. Once I was seated, book already out and open at the bookmark, my chest burned and my arms and legs tingled with a pins-and-needles sensation so aggressive it bordered on violence. I almost but not quite had to stop reading. Two hours later, interviewing a band whose new album I liked very much, I still hadn’t quite got my breath back. ‘You okay?’ said the singer.

  This, I finally acknowledged to myself, was disconcerting.

  A week later, a concert with a friend. My friend is unnecessarily tall; I am significantly shorter. As we made our way from the Tube to the venue, I struggled to keep up with his Monty Python silly walk, and called out for him to slow down. We laughed about it, but even as I did so, I knew that it wasn’t funny. Over a bite to eat afterwards, I found I could not drink my wine. A single swallow caused a muffled implosion inside my skull, and an abrupt sensation of tilting nausea. In it
s stead I ordered something called a Passionfruit & Orange Cooler. It came served with a straw. Again we laughed.

  I had a whole week of normality after that, everything reasserting itself. Relief. I rescued my trunks from the bathroom doorknob, wrapped them in a towel, and jumped on my bike. A day later, fever, shakes and wretchedness.

  Elena suggested I visit the doctor.

  It was a joke in our house, perpetuated by myself alone, that our doctor would have made a good Nazi commandant. It was the severity of her manner, her thin-lipped impatience, that made her patients, like me, quake, and which turned any complaint into nothing more than yet another hypochondriac episode. ‘And do close the door on your way out.’

  I went anyway. She did not look up from the keyboard as she typed. While she did so, I talked. I recounted my symptoms, making light of them. Was I, she wondered, going through any stress at the moment? Some kind of emotional fallout? Everything all right at home? My answers caused her to sigh, and to suggest a blood test. I left, and closed the door behind me.

  The results, a week later, came back negative. I was fine, panic over. Trouble was, I wasn’t. Cycling was now all uphill, in the strictly metaphorical sense. I could no longer manage the three miles to my younger daughter’s nursery without feeling like I was about to collapse. After my final attempt at swimming – though slowly now, and patiently, with no pretence of speed – I cancelled my gym membership, belatedly convinced I needed an extended period of recuperation. But from what? I half-heartedly hoped that the gym, keen for my monthly payments to resume, would try to tempt me back with special offers, new incentives, one month free. But there was nothing. I was immediately forgotten.

  There was now not a week that went by without my feeling utterly dreadful in some new way. I was no expert in the field of flu, or its associated symptoms, but I had come to know it intimately, its tell-tale signs perpetually gathering in my sinuses, the backs of my eyes, my muscles. I would become sluggish, a deep ache in my legs, and in the parts of the spine that only an osteopath would be able to correctly identify. I found myself in bed by 10 most nights, often put there by my kindly, concerned wife before she went back downstairs to an adult existence, a book, a little TV, Mumsnet on the iPad.