It might seem odd to be able to remember certain events from so long ago. But many of us can; they were last moments of us being a version of ourselves that got taken away by, what is turning into, a lifelong illness.
I’m thinking about the what September and October 2010 was like. I always focus on the 10th September as my sickaversary, as they say, but never give much thought to what came after that first medical appointment that marked the start of my time with M.E.
The weeks and months that followed were grim. Weekly GP visits (back when you could actually get an appointment!) pleading with different GPs to see that something wasn’t right. I don’t think anything would have made a difference to the outcome. I believe post-viral illness had already taken root. But my first appointments were very much, “See how you are in a week and then come back”. It took several weeks before I was even sent for a blood test. As someone who had always passed out having injections, it spoke volumes that I willingly went for that blood test immediately, desperate as I was for answers.
Then came the GP egos. The remarks about my suspected lack of willpower. Reducing me and my family to tears. My siblings’ worry. My makeshift bed in the dining room, that eventually became a proper bed as things became permanent.
I was 21 years old. It was all terrible. The fear. The confusion. The cancelled job interviews. The apparent removal of a future. At least the future that we all felt was meant for me, without question.
While it doesn’t do me any good to dwell too much, it’s always served me well to let myself reflect and think back on things; to feel the feelings.
