I am a hot-water bottle. Explanation later.
On the 9th April, I went to work at the kiwifruit orchard as usual. I remember exactly what I was doing - using a stanley knife, I slit open the old plastic spray-guards off the now-mature plants as they were way too tight around the wood. Those plants loved me, I know they did, for liberating them from their sodden, mouldy hell. Dragging a big bag behind me, I collected all this old filthy plastic and emptied it into a huge trash pile at the end of the row.
By smoko time I realised that I was "coming down with something". But, silly me, I ignored the blah and, in fact, picked up the pace like a grand burst of fireworks.
At lunchtime I knew I had to go home.
My body was on strike. Spinning crysanthemum in the sky now dead and dark. Fizzle splat.
Bed, please, all I want is my bed.
Coughing, headache, body collapse. Dizzy spells and brain-fog. Brain-slog. Slain.
After a hot shower I crawled into bed and that is where I remained for the first 5 weeks of my illness except for appointments or the occasional miracle of enough energy for coffee with a friend.
Smashed. Depleted. Done in.
For those of you who may be puzzled, "Hey, but I saw her during that time and we chatted as usual in the chemist or doctor surgery. She seemed OK", let me tell you I wasn't ok at all but I have an extraordinary capacity to put on a chirpy face as etiquette or stupid pride requires. Then I crash extra-bad when home again.
It is now over 3 months later. I am considerably improved but not yet able to work. I've accepted that there is nothing I can do to hasten my recovery but rest and go with the flow of slow.
Post-viral fatigue, says the doctor. Rest up.
I am emerging from this tiresome tunnel and learned a lot from my exhaustion.
A lot which I'll share another time.
For now, let me tell you that the last thing I needed this morning was a huge wet patch in my bed. No, not the result of that midnight cuppa but a burst, failed hot-water bottle.
Entirely my own fault. Yes, I had noticed all the bits of blue rubber in the kitchen sink each morning as I emptied it out. I knew my thin and fragile hot-water bottle was dying but I ignored it.
(Just one more row at the orchard...)
Just one more night of this cosy hot-water bottle thawing my frozen feet.
(Just one more row ...)
I filled that hot-water bottle up fat and tight and, of course, it burst.
( Can't carry on...or can I? )
Inevitable. Stupid. Sheets and wool-rest and blankets all sodden. Hours of washing and drying in our inadequate winter sun.
Yip, today I identify as a perished hot-water bottle.
Tomorrow I am free to identify as a trans-gender radish or a neuro-diverse ostrich, stuck with head in sand forever and ever, amen...but no...
...I think I'll opt for sensible wahine who looks after herself.
