I still don’t really know what I came down with back in January. And I’m not sure that the doctors know either. “Heart failure,” they suggested. If so, I never noticed it. And don’t really believe it.
All I know is that, over the past few months, I’ve become skin and bone. I’ve always been thin, but now I’m even thinner. My ribs are individually visible. The skin on my arms hangs loose. I need a walking frame to get around my flat.
But I actually feel perfectly well. I don’t feel ill. And since getting home a couple of weeks ago, I have a strong appetite, and I’m eating twice as much as before.
My initial symptoms, 4 months ago, included shortness of breath, which was one of the symptoms of the new coronavirus. So I tend to think that’s probably what I got. And the symptoms of it come in many variations, it seems.
Anyway, if the episode has resulted in a considerable weight loss, it’s also left my mind rather blank. I’m not much interested in politics and Trump and all the rest of it. It all seems like a big fuss over nothing. So there’s been little that I’ve wanted to write about. I’m just enjoying the warm green delicious English summer we’re currently experiencing. And I can’t think of anything to write about.
That might change. I’ve just spent the longest time I’ve ever been in hospital, and that’s a transformative experience. It probably is for anyone who goes through it.
Do doctors know much about medicine? Probably not. Or not that much. It was what I thought before I went into hospital, and it’s what I still think now that I’ve come out. What do we really know about anything?
And now I’ll go back to listening to the birds in the garden, and watching them flit between the roofs in the sunlight beneath the spreading blue morning sky.