So this is my present state of play. Just in case you should want to know it.
Starting from my scalp:
My scalp is somewhat tight because in an effort to keep my hair away from my neck (you’ll learn more about that later), I have bundled my
crows nest fake auburn tresses upon the top of my head. My saving grace, in that department, is that I have a bright, shiny, new scrunchy, which really is something to get excited about when you have four kids and are a little more than forty years old.
I look a little like a scarecrow.
With extra straw.
Following downwards my brain is stuffed. Not with the lovely brains and wisdom of my fully spent youth. But with good old fashioned snot. Lots of it. I’ve tried blowing it out. I’ve tested setting it free with a nasal spray. I’ve attempted to shower it out with a nasal irrigation device, but at best, I only dripped. I’ve even done my utmost to pump it into oblivion with a special sinus attachment for my nebuliser; but to no avail.
So my head? It hurts. Somewhat.
My eyes are actually fine. Well, with the exception that I need to take my glasses off in order to see something that’s right there in front of my face.
I’ve discovered, on kissing my husband goodnight, that he is indeed quite a handsome fellow.
My nose is very dry. And bright red.
I have recently heard the name Rudolph being brandished about…
My skin is peeling, especially on my face. It seems to be some kind of wicked side effect to my immune suppressants. I’ve plateaued at a kind of flaky-old-lady with a chaffed look niveau.
I have attempted to replenish the skin with various lotions and potions but my now immune suppressed body reacts with a fiery, burning
wrath rash when I do so. So, I’ve resolved to stay flaky and remember back to yesteryear when it seemed, somehow, like being called flaky was some kind of compliment.
My neck. Ah yes my neck.
Yesterday, it was fine. Although my shoulder was attempting to be a little troublesome…
Then this morning, it complained (a lot) that I had slept wrongly in my bed.
I gently turned it this way and that. I told it, that we were finally out of bed and that, really, it doth protest too much. I promised it a nice warm scarf and a massage.
Then I sneezed.
One almighty sneeze.
And ever since that moment, I have looked like someone shoved a plank up my back as I can now only manoeuver with my whole body when turning to my right.
Hence then my crows nest; it’s the only possible way to stand a chance of the heat patch glue actually staying glued to my neck. That and the quadruple insulation scarf I have wrapped seventeen times around it.
My shoulders are now okay. Ish.
But my lungs? Well, er, let’s keep it short and just say they are competing on the whole mucus front thing.
Glad tidings from my throat though, considering how much I’ve been coughing, my throat is feeling fine. I suspect that’s down to the incredible volume of onion juice and honey I’ve been knocking back.
A little point of interest: my boobs are south facing. South facing!! How did that happen?
Anyway, my hips, ah yes, my left hip twinges. You got it: Twinges.
And my stomach, well, it feels a little nauseous, but, to be honest I’m putting that down to the incredible volume of onion juice and honey I’ve been knocking back.
My lovely Crohn’s bowel? It loves immune suppressants (in stark contrast to every other body part I own) so it’s absolutely fine and dandy.
Though, (and this information I only normally give out on a need to know basis), my bottom cheeks are continuously clenched together, nowadays, in an attempt to maintain a grip on my bloody grapevine otherwise known as my piles.
My left knee is trying to convince doctors that I was some kind of heroic sportswoman, with a pretty array of meniscus tears. But I’ve told them, quite emphatically, I generally stuck to gentle walking. Albeit I did tend to cover large distances, seeing as I am a woman and not a feminist one at that. Therefore, I can freely admit that I cannot park. Not to save myself. Which in turn means that I have always had to abandon my vehicle in the largest possible space I could find. Of course, that then has always happened to be the space that is furthest away from my desired destination. And I also have a tendency to forget where I parked my car, in that good old flaky spirit of mine, so that has, on many occasions led to some gentle strolling too. Not gentle on the nerves, mind you. There was, at times, quite a lot of shouting. And some swearing too. But I doubt that either of those things would have affected my left knee.
And while I’m bearing my soul; my right knee is sympathizing.
Which I don’t need.
I’m quite capable of feeling sorry for my left knee all by myself.
Don’t be thinking that I’m body-sidist, but what on earth is going on with my left foot?
It has some strange lump on it that doctors insist on poking, with an unnecessary fury and injecting concoctions into which has not improved matters in the least.
But the good news is: we live in modern times.
I joked with my daughter, the other day, “By the time you bury me I’ll be half plastic.”
My husband, who apparently still loves me, despite my decrepit frame, retorted, “Titanium, you’ll be made of titanium, it lasts longer.”
After I recovered from his unusual interlude of romanticism, my first thought was, “Wow, I’ll be the one setting off all the alarms at the airport!”
Then I had a little premonition. I realised, long before my own death, exactly what song will play out at my funeral:
“I am titanium……”