Tag Archives: lupus

11. Let’s all do a medical limbo!

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I had an audience with The Supreme Super Doc this week to see if the magic beans he’d prescribed have found their groove. His review was mixed – the groove not altogether groovy. Some great things are happening (applause, whoop) and some bad things are happening (boo, hiss). So I have found myself in a medical limbo, which must not be confused with ‘doing’ a medical limbo, involving bending backwards below conjoined stethoscopes (applause, whoop). On the contrary, I’m ‘in’ a medical limbo, which is rather like sitting in a metaphorical waiting room with no magazines. And in this no-mans land, I can’t beat my chest on bended knee and cry ‘why me?’ I can’t light a slim cigar and huskily sigh ‘je ne regrette rien’. Nor can I spin around on a mountaintop, singing ‘the hills are alive…’

I don’t get to partake in any of the above activities because I can’t be happy, or sad, or Edith Piaf. Instead, I must wait for another FIVE WEEKS, wondering if the drugs are working or if I’ll have to move onto more fearsome drugs. For another FIVE weeks, I’ll be contemplating what my body’s game plan is. Kidneys – are you looking lively? Heart beat – keeping up? Chest tissue – stop being so weedy, your teammates need you now! Isn’t it boring to have become so self-obsessed. I’m quite literally gazing at my own navel, wondering if Lucian Lupus is about to take hold of that too.

I don’t want to be that girl, obsessing over a wannabe Harry Potter villain stealing her tummy button**. She’s the last person you’d want to hang out with at a party! I have to remind myself that the magic beans will work, or won’t work, regardless of the amount of time I spend thinking about them. I have to fill my time with wonderful things I CAN do, instead of dwelling on all the things I can’t. Fun doesn’t have to mean Sauvignon Blanc, skipping and The Macarena at 4am… does it?

The Supreme Super Doc gently advised me to be patient, (apparently he had pre-warned me that this journey would be long, but obviously I hadn’t been listening because my head was busy planning my ‘I’m totally better’ party). So now I’ve got to ‘practice patience’. Gosh. I’ve never been any good at that. I’ve always had a sneaking suspicion that patience is exclusively for people who have time to be patient. Take Buddhist monks for example– they’ve literally got nothing on – no TV series to catch up on, no drinks parties to go to. Their diaries are empty, it’s no wonder they’re so Zen! Perhaps they’ve learnt to practice patience waiting for party invites to turn up? Poor monks. Regardless of my devout impatience, I’ve taken a solemn vow to abstain from parties and commit to kale. I will embrace early nights and green food. I will remove myself from fun scenarios because I simply can’t keep up with them. For now. I will press pause.

So to the Lupus Troopers out there; learn to be patient patients my friends because fighting it won’t speed your recovery. Try not to remove all joy and replace it with navel gazing, because let’s face it they’re not all that exciting to watch. Enjoy the space your medical limbo has offered you. Focus on all that’s great. Take stock. Reflect. Laugh at this nonsense. And rehearse your rendition of ‘the hills are alive….’ Hare Krishna. (Applause, whoop.)

 

**As weird as that sentence is, it’ll make absolute sense if you’ve read a previous blog post. If it doesn’t make sense then you only have yourself to blame. Now, you’ve got a backlog of posts to catch up on dear! Quick sharp. Look lively! 

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Check me out with my green juice! Beat that buddha!

10. I resolve to cover Patrick Swayze in clay

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Happy New Year folks! I want to kick-start 2016 with an appropriately positive post about taking the new year by the horns and riding it bare back to Copacabana and home again. I want to list my modest 34 New Year Resolutions, which are usually a variation of the following:-

1: Always wear matching underwear.

2: Join gym (again).

3: Join pottery class – recreate scene from Ghost.

4: Join Yoga studio next to work. Go EVERY lunch-time.

Etc etc…

There’s normally around 30 more, equally self serving, ambitions to join, learn and live adventurously.

I want to start this year with my best foot forward, blindly hopeful and determined, like a whippet at the starting gate (in matching underwear) that has just caught scent of a rabbit. I want to be ready and raring to go. I want to, but I’ve found myself anxiously hanging around the starting line with my tail between my legs. I want to be chomping at the bit with my habitual enthusiasm to skip round the track, but it’s cold and I suspect the rabbit’s going to get away. I want to begin 2016 just as I have previous years.  I want to, but I can’t. This year I’ve got a new appendage hanging on for the ride and it seems to be weighing me down; Lucian Lupus, what are you doing here? You weren’t invited! I don’t quite feel like racing anymore…

I’ve realised that my usual New Year Resolutions are no longer working for me. Wearing matching underwear feels futile when it’s an effort to put any on at all. I need to manage a full day at work before wasting energy covering Patrick Swayze’s six-pack in clay. And surviving a gym session is as realistic as me running a marathon backwards and blindfolded whilst speaking fluent Swahili. (Although this is fairly unrealistic at this time, it’s not altogether unrealistic if I should really put my mind to it. Next year perhaps. Natarajia mbio za marathon nyuma, which means, ‘I look forward to running a marathon backwards and blindfolded’- in Swahili. I’m practically fluent already). I digress…

It’s no big deal really. I just need to realign my resolutions, at least until I’ve found the right medication to curb Lucian’s current enthusiasm. Every day I’ll write a new and more realistic resolution depending on how I’m feeling at the time. I.e. ‘wash your hair without sitting down in the shower!’ Or, ‘remember to take your pills after breakfast!’ Or, ‘Do. Not. Feel. Sorry. For. Yourself. because it’s not like Patrick Swayze was ever actually going to be in the pottery class.’

Admittedly it’s been a fairly disheartening start to the year as I’ve struggled with the mundanity* of lustreless lupus life. But reassessing my list of resolutions for 2016 doesn’t have to mean I’m any less imaginative or determined, I just have to be a little bit more realistic, for now. (FYI. 2017’s list is going to include space travel and a pet monkey.)

So I’m keeping this post short tonight, because my resolution for today is ‘go to bed early, because tomorrow you’re back at work!’

Goodnight fellow whippets. Now get some rest because we’re going to need all our energy to achieve the resolutions we’ve set out to conquer – whether that’s to catch the rabbit, or just to wash your hair. x

*Apparently mundanity isn’t actually a word, but you know exactly what I mean, and I think it’s a perfectly great word. If we all start saying ‘mundanity’ then the clever folks at the Oxford English Dictionary might be really embarrassed that they’ve accidentally missed out a word, and pop it in there. Success! Mundanity all round!… although that doesn’t sound like very much fun.

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I resolve to be good, in moderation.

9. ‘Tis the season for mince pies and morphine

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‘Tis the season to be jolly (falalalala, lalalala) even when you’re throwing up on Christmas morning, because having a shower was too much fun for one day (falalalala, lalalala.) ‘Tis not the season to pass on Christmas pudding, so I’ve put my rule book to one side and enjoyed a heady mix of mince pies, morphine and mulled wine (falalalala, lalalalaaaaaaaaaaggghhh!)

And now I’m back in bed, my chest throbbing in distain for the frivolity, I’m wondering if it was all worth it? Of COURSE it was, every last crumb and dance with my niece, every last dunk in brandy butter and roar of laughter. Every crisp, every game, every sip, every hour, every single moment was worth it. Which leads me to ponder (with my head at a jaunty angle and my index finger to my lip), has it all been worth it? Have the last five months offered me anything more than a restored love of almond milk?

Now, I would never wish for Lupus (like I wish for Isabel Marant boots), that would be silly and a little sadistic, but I am incredibly grateful for the refreshed view on life that Lupus has bought me. Lupus is partly responsible for placing my life in a golden frame and saying to me, ‘look at this life you’ve got, you massive lush! Look closer! I know it may be a bit wonky, it may not have turned out exactly as your 15 year old self thought it would, but it’s f-ing bloody brilliant and you are SO lucky.’

Over the last five months, I’ve received enough flowers to host the Chelsea Flower Show and Get Well Cards to fill a forest (if we could magically reverse the paper-making process… sorry trees.) My friends and family have a canny knack of appearing just as I’m close to feeling sorry for myself, with grapes and cakes and the wisest of words; with eye cream and candles, foot rubs and head strokes; with DVDs and magazines and bouquets of fruit (no shit, click on this link, they’re amazing!) They’ve come with herbal teas, juice recipes and an abundance of PMA. They’ve emptied the dishwasher, they’ve made me soup and they’ve made me laugh and laugh (until I’ve had to tell them to stop being so goddamn funny because it hurts.) Blimey, I am SO lucky.

I’ve been reunited with old school friends and boyfriends who have appeared from nowhere to wish me well. Although no longer in uniform or in the band, and despite the years that have passed and the nonsense life has also thrown at them, they’ve hardly changed at all. What an influence on my life our past together has been, and what inspirations they live to be now. I am SO lucky to have experienced them and to be able to rediscover them now.

I’ve had endless support from my bosses and colleagues at Coffee & TV. Working with such a passionate, talented and hilarious crew is the very best tonic (and if it could be bottled we’d all be millionaires! So I’m working on it…) I’m SO lucky to be able to spend my days with such an awesome and energizing bunch.

If ever you need your significant other to prove his / her love for you, remind him every day how much you’re hurting and cannot possibly hoover. Tell him that you can’t go out despite the fact it’s his friend’s engagement party / birthday party / Halloween party / new-born’s christening. Ask for your hot-water bottle to be refilled, despite the fact he fell asleep half an hour ago. Tell him you want the moon and ask him to throw a lasso around it and pull it down. All hurdles are equally demanding and worthy of proving his love. Thankfully, my boy has successfully completed his endurance test; indeed he’s endured an awful lot, and I am SO lucky.

And although it’s surprising to find yourself being tucked into bed by your mum / dad / sister / brother, at the age of 34, (and certainly not what my 15 year old self had foreseen) I am SO grateful. What a privilege it’s been to spend this uninterrupted time with my family – to be cocooned in their unconditional love, with tea and toast on tap. Gosh, aren’t I lucky.

Oooopsies, I appear to have written my Lupus Awards acceptance speech. I’ll stop here (else I’ll have nothing to say in my actual Lupus Awards acceptance speech, a glamorous red-carpet affair that I’m certain my Super Doc is planning). There’s an awful lot more I have to be thankful for, but I’m precariously standing on the edge of the smug zone. I appreciate that not everyone is lucky enough to be surrounded by such incredible people, but I do hope that the frame around your world highlights all that’s good, funny, surprising and wonderful… I promise it’s all there, if you look hard enough.

Numerous people have asked me lately how I remain so chipper; I hope this post shows that it would be very hard not to be! THANK YOU to everyone who has made it so. Despite the hospital visits, the tests, the tears, the aches, the pain and puke, I’m really rather lucky. Perhaps it’s the morphine talking? Or perhaps I just feel really rather jolly – ‘tis the season after all (falalalala, lalalala.) SO, bring it on 2016, I’m ready for you and I’ve got my army with me.

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London Bridge Hospital, feeling festive

8. Insomnia and a Kidney Beret

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I don’t care what Instagram says, healthy eating isn’t fun and it certainly isn’t sexy. The truth is, ‘come to bed eyes’ should be more aptly named ‘sauvignon eyes’ because let’s face it, no romance ever blossomed over a wind-inspiring Green Smoothie. No babies were ever made after a playful evening of carrot batons and Wheatgrass shots. No dalliance into debauchery ever concluded with kale. No life-loving, adventure-seeking being ever said ‘hey, you know what’s really fun? Broccoli.’ (Unless of course, the broccoli is attached to the end of a bungee rope, or Snickers bar.) That’s not to say I haven’t tried to be green and lean. Every January I successfully detox for a week, and celebrate with a vat of Pinot Noir and a Chinese Takeaway for four, for one. But for the first time, I’ve got a legitimate reason to try, and I can’t find a legitimate reason not to. And so my foray into eating clean began with a hint of cynicism, a dollop of dismay and four sleepless nights.

The Super Doc (Doctor Lanham at the London Lupus Centre) suggested it was time to stop taking Tramadol because after three months, the stuff was doing nothing for my mojo. He also gave me a trial prescription for steroids in the hope they might encourage my immune system to perk up. Concerned that five days on the ‘roids would inspire immediate beard growth, an appetite for Call of Duty and a penchant wolf whistling, I decided that I should counteract chemicals with pure goodly goodness. I raided Amazon for books with (smug) pretty girls on the cover – they all seemed to be holding a yoga pose and green juice concurrently. Multi-tasking majesties. And their faces (smug faces) shone with the dew of their early morning Pilates, and their eyes sparkled, and their teeth twinkled and their plentiful hair curled like magnificent Unicorn manes. They glowed from their insides out, with livers exquisite enough to be worn as broaches and glistening clean colons that would make the most delightful necklaces. I didn’t just want to look like them, I wanted to be them (or at least wear their shiny organs as jewellery.) And as my salubrious sisters sang to me from their recipe book covers, I realised I shouldn’t have come off the Tramadol quite so quickly.

For FOUR NIGHTS I lay awake, counting sheep until there were none left. My body ached with exhaustion, but how could I possibly sleep when I was so busy re-enacting scenes from Trainspotting? The Tramadol had taken more of a hold than I had thought and the ‘roids were preparing me for a wild night out I was never going to go on. A sleepless haze distorted my days but I was determined to carry on regardless. Getting dressed felt like participating in the Iron Man finals. Commuting to work was a mission to the underworld with Hades on my back. Eating was essential in order to take my pills, but it’s ever so tricky to fry an egg white omelette from foetal position. Life seemed to be getting harder and curly kale wasn’t helping. Narcotics and healthy eating is a juxtaposition Irvine Walsh obviously hadn’t considered when he was writing Trainspotting, which is a shame because I could have done with a point of reference and the glowing girls weren’t helping.

When I found myself waking up on Regent’s Street having fainted amidst indifferent tourists, it was time to head back to Super Doc (with an awesome new recipe for sweet potato brownies.)

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Nothing says FUN like celery! (said no one ever)

5.The Knight, The King and The Jester

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Not having Pleurisy is considerably harder than having pleurisy, because if I don’t have pleurisy then what the hell DO I have?!

“Well it’s not cancer”, the doctor crooned, throwing down his Royal Flush. I spat out my tea, (I wasn’t drinking one at the time, but my mouth did the same action). “Of COURSE IT’S NOT CANCER!” I hadn’t ever thought it was cancer, not for a second, but the moment he told me it wasn’t, I thought it almost certainly was. God I miss Pleurisy. Good old faithful 18th Century sounding Pleurisy. I had a solid relationship with that bad-boy and now it’s left me – left me with WHAT?!

The hospital doctors referred me to a respiratory specialist, who (much like Mr Bean) lost my test results, forgot to schedule my appointment and tell me he was going on holiday for a month (probably with his teddy bear). On hearing this news, my MD* galloped centre stage upon his trusty white steed, a sword in one had and my private health insurance in the other… what a way to deliver an email! Legend. I booked an appointment with Professor Santis at the London Bridge Hospital for the following day. (A Professor no less, like Stephen Hawking and Henry Higgins, but better!**)

I have to admit to feeling guilty for leaving the NHS behind; after all it had done for me. Despite the crisis that looms over its head, wards fit to bursting and purses nearly empty, the doctors and nurses worked tirelessly, with care, dedication and the humility and patience of a Buddhist monk working in the Next Christmas Sale. I have a lot to thank them for.

Professor Santis had the air of a King on a polo horse. I immediately bowed in his presence and apologised for wasting his time. I fought desperately to hold back tears because I couldn’t bear to see the distain on his face at my feminine fragility… he might have me beheaded! So instead of telling him that my chest stabbed with every beat of my heart and I’d taken to fainting in embarrassing places, I danced him a merry jig and sang a tuneful song. He told me there was an area of concern in my CT scan – a small gap in one of the rivers running from my heart where there ought to be blood and that my lungs weren’t functioning as they ought to. So I told a few jokes, jingled my bells, apologised profusely and backed out of his office, relieved that my kindly master had spared me.

Whilst I waited for the second opinion, King Santis prescribed me some magic beans, I mean pills, magic pills. And so began what shall henceforth be known as, ‘The Dark Days of Sick and Doom’. Oh what a noble and magnanimous King. All hail King Santis.

I booked an appointment to see him in again in 5 days, (dark days of sick and doom) and I cartwheeled back to Vauxhall. (Honestly guys, stick around for ‘The Dark Days of Sick and Doom’… it’s going to be a hoot!)

 

*To clarify, my MD is the Coffee & TV Managing Director, not my friend Shane who is a Musical Director.

** Since Professor Henry Higgins is fictional, (and all he really did was manipulate some poor girl so she could sing about the rain in Spain and embarrass herself at the races), I can confidently say that my Proff is better. I have no facts to support Professor Santis’ superiority over Professor Stephen Hawking, but it’s childish to turn this into a competition, so just stop it! (but in a fight, Proff Santis would probably win. Just saying.)

ProffKing Santis of London Bridgeshire

3. A party and no pants…

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The Royal Surrey Hospital is a giant un-fun maze (not of the bushy variety you find in regal gardens*); and the Emergency Assessment Unit is as easy to access as Platform 9 ¾.* What a good job no one looking for it, is hoping to be assessed in an emergency. Oh.

Mum and I spent (what felt like) ten hours navigating the NHS Labyrinth. We crossed paths with lost souls who had originally come to visit relatives, only to find themselves so disorientated by hallways they were now being treated for malnourishment and delirium. Gasping for breath, I desperately attempted to keep up with mum, (‘Mother’s Race’ Winner – Saint Teresa’s School Sport’s Day – 1994). I had no chance. Having entirely forgotten I was with her, mum was enjoying a rather clinical life-sized game of Pac Man, until she had a head on collision with a white coat.

“Excuse me Sir”, mum curtsied, because he was clearly a doctor. “We’re looking for the unit where you assess emergencies.” He pointed to the EAU, which was just behind us. Mum hurried in with the power of an ambulance through swing doors, where she waited a while for me to catch up.

After being ushered into a cubicle, we quietly conspired that I would NOT be staying the night. Ever the optimist, I hadn’t packed pants. So since the visit was going to be fleeting, we decided we might as well enjoy it with a wide selection of magazines and a delicious M&S spread. What fun! Doctors and nurses were joyfully welcomed into our cubicle; “thanks for popping by, sausage roll?” And even in the absence of booze, conversation flowed freely; “do you smoke?” No. “Do you drink alcohol?” Oh go on then Doctor, I’ll have one if you are. “How many units?” What?

It felt like a peculiar drinks party under strip lighting, underscored by the beep of a heart monitor instead of Michael Buble. Mum had our guests roaring with laughter as she regaled us with tales of her Pulmonary Embolism, until a party pooper threw open the curtains to say, “We’ve had your results back and I’m afraid we’re going to have to keep you in.”… But I haven’t packed pants!

Not one to be discouraged, mum began to hatch a plan for my escape. “I’ll tell the little nurse that you’re leaving and that’s final. She’s only 12, what’s she going to do? We’ll just walk out!”

As much as I admired my mum’s spirit of determination, I suspected that the doctor’s might have the right idea as my chest felt on the edge of implosion… plus I was exhausted from all the fun of our party.

 

* Hampton Court Maze is a lot of fun, but don’t let anyone trick you into thinking there’s chocolate, or a magical unicorn in the middle, because there’s neither; there’s just more bush which isn’t edible or magical.

* If you haven’t read, or seen Harry Potter then you won’t get this reference; you’re probably also a muggle, but because you haven’t read Harry Potter you don’t even know what muggle means. Pah! What a muggle!

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It’s party time!

2. Doctor Google says I’ve got boob Ebola.

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There are five things I can guarantee you’ll do when you’re ill in bed.

  • You will Facebook stalk everyone you knew at 16 in the hope they’ve aged badly. (In case not everyone who is sick Facebook stalks Ali Naylor, believe me, this veritable sex-god-in-chinos has NOT aged well. See! Don’t you feel better already?! You’re welcome.)
  • You will eat more calories in one day than is humanly possible to burn running a marathon, (if like me,  you’re eternally grateful your illness hasn’t put you off your food!) As delicious as this is, it isn’t all that sensible to consume 15,481 calories when you’re not in the mood to run a marathon, and the only exercise you’re getting is when you’re forced to get out of bed because digestive biscuit crumbs are exfoliating your bottom. This ‘exercise routine’ may happen every hour or so, but still, it’s no marathon.
  • You will pretend not to have watched four episodes of Come Dine With Me, back to back.
  • You will pray to God your HR department isn’t pulling out the big blue folder that says ‘Statutory Sick Pay’.
  • You will Google your symptoms at least 3042 times, an hour. You will learn SO much from Doctor Google, you’ll wonder why on earth people waste ten years of their lives training to become doctors via the traditional (and clearly out-dated) route. You will Whatsapp your friends to tell them you’re probably having a heart attack. You will call your mum to break the news you have Ebola in your left boob. You will hold your boyfriend close and sob into his shoulder because he’s probably infected with your Smallpox. Your boyfriend will reassure you that Smallpox was entirely eradicated in 1977, and you’ll stroke his poor little confused head in the knowledge your disease has already started to erode his brain. Your brain hasn’t started to erode yet, because it’s stronger.

I spent two weeks in comprehensive medical training. It was thoroughly exhausting because Doctor Google is relentless in the provision of ‘knowledge’. Doctor Google is always open for business; unblinking, unyielding, unending. Insistent information awaits your click. WebMD.com rests for no man; NHS Symptom Checker.co.uk needs to be checked; MayoClinic.org; HealthLine.com; Patient.info; VetDirect.com (just in case.) An endless stream of enlightenment waits to be unravelled, from the moment you wake until the wee hours. Because how else are you going to get to the bottom of why you’re STILL hurting?!

So when I returned to the doctor’s, I sympathetically advised him that perhaps he’d wasted ten years of his life to an evidently fruitless education. I didn’t say those exact words, I think I said ‘help. The anti-inflamatories haven’t made any difference. It hurts more than I can bear. I can’t breath. My chest feels like it’s breaking with every breath. I haven’t slept properly in two weeks. Please. Help me.”

He made a quick call to the Emergency Assessment Unit at the Royal Surrey Hospital to tell them to expect me. I Googled ‘Bird Flu’ on my way.

So my advice to the sickly folk out there, is DON’T DOCTOR GOOGLE. What does ‘@HotmizzArizona’ know that your doctor doesn’t? Granted, she probably knows how to peel a prickly pear, (an Arizonian delicacy your doctors hasn’t encountered yet) but that’s not a good enough reason to follow her health advice on Med.Help.com. Even in the dead of the night, when you feel lonely, helpless, anxious, and you fear you’re loosing control, DON’T DOCTOR GOOGLE, because boob Ebola isn’t worth worrying about after all.

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Danger. Midnight Doctor Googling.

1. Welcome to ‘Lush to Lupus’, this is just the beginning…

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I work in the best area of London when the summer sun begins to shine. In a celebratory mood, Soho is awash with Aperol Spritz as long lunches turn into long cocktails until long after the sun goes down. Thankfully I work in an industry populated by creative mischief-makers and my incredible job has allowed me the opportunity to court fun like 007 courts danger. So when a peculiar chest pain crept up on me this August, I was more concerned about the opening of the new Soho House, rather than my health. In fact, my heath was so far down my list of priorities and lost within my thoughts, I could barely see it; I imagine it looked a bit like this inside my head… ‘I wonder how much it would cost to build a vineyard in Puglia? Do you build vineyards or grow them? I’d love a puppy. How long does it take to grow the vines and is £2082 savings enough to buy them? My chest hurts, I’ll just Google ‘vineyards for sale’. There’s a Zara sale! I know nothing about vineyards so I should probably quash the dream of owning one. I want to launch a new short film festival. I’d just drink all the wine before I have the chance to sell it so a vineyard is a terrible idea. How about a bed and breakfast in Cornwall?’

As a healthy 30 year old (ok ok, 34 year old) I have garnered the nickname Leonie Lush for my crafty ability to find the fun in any occasion. ‘We just won a new client, let’s go for a DRINK! I LOVE Taylor Swift’s new song, let’s find somewhere to DANCE to it! It’s TUESDAY and I’ve got a voucher for PIZZA EXPRESS! It’s TUESDAY!’ Etc. So when that niggling chest pain kept interrupting my fun, I reluctantly decided to go to the doctors. But because I’m normally a picture of health (minus the hangovers and subsequent Domino’s Pizzas), I didn’t have a doctor, so I had to borrow my parents’. I popped on the train to Guildford and was greeted by my dad who was waiting with the anticipation of a Labrador whose owners had tied him to a lamppost and gone travelling round Europe. Dad wagged his (invisible) tail and we merrily drove to the doctor to get some antibiotics for my ‘chest infection.’ In the car he warned me that ‘Doctor Englesfield doesn’t like it when you tell him what’s wrong with you, you have to let him think he thought of it first.’

So with that in mind, I told the ‘know-it-all’ doctor that my chest hurt, a lot. At first it just hurt after the gym, then it hurt when I ran for a bus, then it hurt when I walked up the stairs, then it hurt when I walked, then it just hurt all.the.time. and it had been getting progressively worse over the past three weeks. The doc said it wasn’t a chest infection after all (fancy that!) He prescribed me some non steroidal anti-inflammatories for Costochondritis (which is inflammation of the cartilage between the ribs, possibly caused by a virus.) I happily picked up my prescription, and my dad drove me home where my mum had just popped a bottle of Prosecco in celebration of my return. Cheers!

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Three glasses… one for Lizzie, Lenny and Leonie Lush.