The triumph of boiling an egg has been a recurrent theme throughout my time with chronic illness.
There was a time in The Beginning when my friends were all sharing about what they’d been up to since we’d last caught up, and, perhaps obviously, I didn’t have anything remotely similar to share. On that particular day I was okay with that. And so I shared the news I did have. I had boiled an egg, by myself, and without a kitchen catastrophe. I hadn’t burnt myself. I hadn’t let the pan boil dry. I hadn’t undercooked the egg and made an inedible mess. And most noteworthy of all, I hadn’t needed any help.
It was the equivalent of my friends getting engaged or being offered a new job. I was A Big Deal.
It’s still, fourteen years in, a significant and noteworthy occurrence. Although touch wood it happens more frequently than it did.
And the egg cups? These egg cups were a gift that I will always cherish. When my sister was pregnant with my eldest nephew (the first baby of our generation), we had family visiting who brought presents for the baby. I had recently started counselling to help cope with my sister’s pregnancy (see my childlessness highlight or The Baby Thing posts) and so it was a hard day for me; sitting and watching baby clothes and hampers of essentials being unwrapped. It wasn’t a baby shower as such, but it was part of the reason I came to have a strict No Baby Showers rule.
Anyway. For whatever reason my Aunty also brought me a gift that day. Cute little bird egg cups. Just because. My broken, grieving heart took that gift as one of the greatest, and most perfectly timed, I’ve ever received.
Full disclosure. Last week I tried to boil my own egg but for whatever reason it wasn’t cooked despite boiling for 7 minutes (completely unrelated to M.E. we think I’m jinxed in the kitchen) and then I was too exhausted from the exertion and concentration so my husband had to step in. But this week. Boom! Independent woman for 10 whole minutes of the day. Look at me go.
'M.E. myself and I' by Anna Redshaw 