For a couple of days my
lower limbs have had that achingly rubbery feel that I always used to associate
with a bad bout of flu. Cervical and axillary lymph nodes, in neck and armpits,
have once again taken on a most disconcerting tenderness, as if striving to
draw my attention away from those aches that seem to flit between elbows and
wrists. Gosh, as I write this down, it’s just dawning on me what bodily excitements
I bear witness to.
Chronic abdominal spasms,
and erratic spasms of irritation in the upper digestive tract, make almost
perfect companions to the not infrequent chest pains. It’s almost as if some
great controller has decided that no part of my torso or limbs should feel
lonesome; I must admit that my body’s
erratic thermostat, with the dance between overheated and over-chilled
clamminess, is beginning to feel absolutely normal.
A couple of weekends ago,
I was so proud of my achievement in attending two events
of moderate socializing on
consecutive days, but within thirty–six hours payback had well and truly kicked
in. On the Monday, after the social weekend, it came as something of a surprise to hear my GP utter those
unexpected words, “don’t push yourself”.
When it comes to an illness like ME, there couldn’t be any more sensible
words of warning. Trouble is, on those rare occasions, when one feels able to
manage a modest amount of exertion, it’s not always obvious where the
boundaries lie.
Pacing is so vital but, at times, one seems to be
set on an almost interminable learning curve.
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