L ooking out from the kitchen window, I can see a large patch of green in the Mediterranean garden where gravel should be. Nick, our resident wood pigeon who, every day, pecks his way towards the spills tray from the bird feeder, is standing chest-deep in weeds, staring at me as if waiting for an explanation. His water bowl hasn’t been cleaned in days either. In the living room, I pick up large balls of fluff and dust that have accumulated around chair legs and beneath the sofa. The dining room windows are so dirty, the view beyond appears to be in a permanent haze.
For the past four weeks, and counting, I have completely neglected my domestic duties, and the house is showing the result. I just hope no-one comes to visit before I’ve had a chance to rectify the situation but the way I’m still feeling today that might not be for a few days yet.
I blamed the jigsaw
W hen Jack and I were in Cardiff, I was complaining about a pain in my right hip and my back which never seemed to alleviate. I blamed it on spending an hour or so every afternoon in Jack’s office (he has been working downstairs all summer) working on the 1000-piece jigsaw he bought me for Christmas.
‘It’s your office chair,’ I complained. ‘I don’t know how you sit on it all day, I find it really uncomfortable.’
But when the pain persisted, particularly in my hip, I began to fret that, after years of being as fit as a flea thanks to my addiction to hiking, I might be heading to hip-replacement territory. The thought terrified and depressed me.
Then, a couple of days after we got home, Jack noticed a rash on my lower back, creeping round towards my hip. I couldn’t feel anything and it didn’t look serious, so I ignored it but the following day it had begun to blister.
Jack took a photo of the rash, and I sent it to my surgery. Five minutes later I got a phone call from my GP. She confirmed I had shingles and arranged for me to pick up a prescription for an antiviral medication in the next couple of hours.
Her advice was:
‘Wear loose clothing; wear something soft next to your body that won’t move around, and control the pain as best you can with paracetamol and ibuprofen. There’s nothing else to do except wait for your body’s own defences to fight the virus.’
Breaking the pain threshold
F or the first week, the pain was excruciating and very difficult to deal with. During the day, I could keep it within barely tolerable limits through regular ibuprofen but at night, pain levels ramped up to off-the-chart. There wasn’t a single way I could lie, sit or stand that didn’t make my body scream in agony. And without the aid of ibuprofen, I spent every minute of night after night wracked in pain and misery.
Mercifully, by mid-way through the second week the nighttime pain levels had dropped to simply unbearable but I was still unable to sleep as there was no position that didn’t leave me clenching my teeth and moaning in misery.
Jack had to move to the guest room, for his own comfort and to give me the space to pace the room and whimper through the night. It wasn’t until near the end of week three that I finally started to snatch interrupted sleep. Now, I’m at the end of week four, heading into week five and for the past two nights, have managed to sleep for most of the night.
Deadlines don’t help
T he timing couldn’t have been worse. I had just accepted two commissions to produce copy for new Rough Guides publications with ridiculously short deadlines. I knew it would be tough, but I thought I could manage to hit deadlines if I worked on them every day. That was before shingles came to call. It had other ideas.
Every morning I sat gingerly in my office chair and slowly, painfully (lit) began to compile guides to 22 destinations in Spain and Italy. By midday I was spent and after lunch, went back to bed to recoup an hour’s worth of sleep deprivation. Thankfully, my editors were both brilliant and given the circumstances, allowed me a small extension on deadlines. I submitted my final copy today.
Life after shingles
A nyone who has been unfortunate enough to experience this bitch of a virus will understand what I’ve been through. My sister-in-law has been a rock for me having been through it herself earlier this year. Now, for the first time, I am beginning to acknowledge that my life may soon return to some semblance of normality.
I can begin to think about catching up with long-overdue tasks like cleaning and gardening. I hope soon to be able to wear something other than the three dresses I’ve had to alternate for this whole time, constantly laundering and drying in rotation. I’m giddy at the prospect of a pair of trousers. Unable to tolerate anything with a waistband, including tights, my bare legs have been complaining bitterly that it stopped being warm enough for them to be exposed, some time ago.
I emerge from this pain tunnel with a new admiration, respect and empathy for those living with chronic pain… you are stronger, more resilient human beings than I. And I urge anyone who’s eligible to get a shingles vaccination as soon as possible.
Soon, I hope, I’ll be able to get back to my jigsaw… and that chair.
