Pancakes. 30 January 2016

I've woken up this morning after five days mostly spent in bed. The shower mat is gunky, the sink is caked in muck and the bed has the unfresh feel of being occupied for too long. This has gone on un-noticed for weeks but today with a window of fresh awareness and a modicum of energy it unsettles me ... no it's hard to find the right word ... appals? ... discomforts? ... saddens ... beckons me? ... No! It ... motivates me, and for half an hour I scrub and cleanse. 

My mind drifts back to my early twenties when I proudly owned and used a drill, could do my own - minor - plumbing jobs, juggle a full time job with canoeing in evenings and at weekends, down the Tweed, The Tay and sometimes taking my place in the ladies' canoe polo team (which was in the same league as the youth team, so we faced great bruisers of boys up to 16 years old and I spent a lot of time - which the rules allowed - in the water!)

People say they remember the day they were struck down. For me, it was nearly thirty years ago and I remember a time of sore throats, red raw, excruciatingly sore throats, courses of antibiotic after antibiotic then the indescribable fatigue. Painful arms and legs and days when I crawled along the hall to get to the toilet. Struggling not to take time off work at the start of my working life. Driving forty miles to my work and forty weary, exhausted and at times dangerous miles back home in the evening. I wasn't struck down in an instant but was prodded, nudged then beaten down slowly.

The term Yuppie Flu had only just been coined and it seemed bizarre to me that I should have the symptoms of this illness that had only recently become ... popular? So, best to ignore and carry on, accepting the excruciating tiredness, every bug that hit me and taking to bed only on the days that crawling on the floor was the only option.

I'm cleaning well, scrubbing hard, bending down, reaching nooks and crannies. I realise it is not motivation that is driving me. It is anger. I am angry at this illness that has accompanied me through my career, my marriage, my girls' childhood years. The anger is showing results. The bathroom is cleaner, the bed is stripped.

The anger hasn't come from five days flattened in bed. It hasn't come from thirty years of relentless boom and bust. It's because my thoughts occasionally now drift to thinking that this illness has defeated me. I've reached ... not a crossroad, but a Spaghetti Junction, where every tangled road I try to follow leads to places called, 'Little Energy', 'Greater Pain', 'Loss of Working...ton!', 'Debt-Ville.' In fact the Spaghetti Junction starts to take a recognisable form. The roads start to spiral into ever decreasing circles.

Now I'm making a very good batch of pancakes - one of my best.