Surviving misfortunes
We’ve all been ill at some time or another. If you’re reading this you survived, possibly completely, mostly intact, cognitively able and sensorily aware. You might even be as you were; or better than you’ve ever been. Or not. For myself, I fear the latter although at the time of the recovery I showed such bravado that even I was convince that there is truth in the adage: “what you suffer only makes you stronger”. What I now know is that the marginal gain in fortitude is quickly lost as we age and any gain at the time is compounded negatively in our senior years.
Our body, though, has an amazing set of actions and reaction to deal with illness. We have an entire system devoted to such a task. The immune system can turn adversity into reward. A child gets sick and immediately the body goes into overdrive to not only rid the body of invasion but prepare the child for any future occurrence of the same troublesome bug. We now know how that works and have developed vaccines to trick the body into believing it has been contaminated just so the antibodies produced will deal with future infection.
The causes of illness are numerous and varied. They don’t all work in the same way either. The body needs a bank of strategies to tackle each individual invader. We might be infected with microbes, injected with toxins, attacked by our own body, denied the proper use of an organ or two, inflict our own pain and suffering by a number of means, or just wear out.
My personal collection of inflictions include glandular fever (from whence I know not where it came), an overdose of alcohol from time to time, a blocked artery causing my heart to malfunction and from which it has never recovered, the odd collision with objects less tenuous than myself, and a sticky hip, claimed by the medical profession as ‘worn out’. Surely there is a more alarming medical term I can use in company.
Along with that we seem to treat our body as we might an enemy of the state. We drop it, strike it with all manner of things, allow others to do same, adorn it with self-inflicted wounds, and act as if we are made of titanium steel instead of the putty-like jelly of soft, pliable and easily damaged cells that we are. Foolishly, we are risk takers. More foolishly we thing we can survive unscathed.
It’s a wonder we survive at all. Life expectancy isn’t really an expectation, it’s a guess. Don’t rely on it too much.
But there are two things we must also contend with during these times of indisposition and, hopefully, convalescence: ourselves and others.
There is nothing more self-centering and draw us to focus on our own mortality than ones own illness. The last thing you really want to hear is the tales of woe from others. Nevertheless they will inform you of how sick they had been or still are with a disorder that is far worse than yours and how they suffer beyond description and belief.
If the other isn’t currently debilitated by their own infection or infliction they will know of someone who is: close or distant relative, friend, neighbour, or someone they read about or saw on the tellie.
Now, I’m not sure what the purpose of these diabolical tales of obscure disorders is to serve but you can be reassured that the perpetrator will be the only person gaining any satisfaction or consolation.
The possibility of the other to have a cure, a better doctor, a placebo in the form of a platitude or consolation prize, or the name of a reputable undertaker is quite high. The other will also ask you if you are OK, knowing full well that you are not and feeling even worse since the other arrived to cheer you up.
Interestingly enough, the cures offered have little to do with current medical knowledge. More so, they will be ancient Mayan cocoa and beetroot brews or a sparkling crystal one is supposed to place under ones pillow at night with the end result being a bleeding scalp in the morning and withdrawals from the excessive caffeine.
There will always be a nutritionalist in the mix with a sure fire recipe containing essential superfoods such as kale and leaf litter from a rainforest floor. I was once offered blended wheat shoots to help with a gut ache I had. I couldn’t get my senses past the colour. Then I remembered how much cows like wheat grass and how much farting a cow contributes to greenhouse gases, so I declined the offer.
If you have any religious friends, prepare yourself. They will surely pray for you; hopefully in the privacy of their own home or distant alter. I have such friends. They know full well what I think of their connection to their god and even if he existed, how little notice he would take of them looking to find a cure for me. Besides, why is it that such others have the gall to think that their very busy god would even be aware of their existence, or mine for that matter, and be decent enough to stop flooding Bangladesh or setting in place an Ebola outbreak in southern Sudan just to deal with my wacky hip or man flu. I don’t think even a case of cancer would get him out of bed on Day 7.
So, what is my advise to those who are suffering or will suffer a malady.
Tell no-one.
Unfortunately we tend to tell everyone we come across. It’s like the weather. It’s a cordiality we use to start a conversation or greet a friend. We can’t help ourselves.
And since I know you can’t resist, all I can suggest is to be patient. Death will come soon enough and both the pain of mind and body will vanish along with the others who will add you to their bank of stories of woe when they next meet a sick friend.
The best part of any illness is when it belongs to someone else’s misery.