I’ve missed most of June this year. For someone who loves the cooler months this is a major blow but it’s not only the season that appeals to me : there’s something magical about the winter solstice, getting up in the dark even at a reasonable hour makes it feel one is somehow getting a headstart on the day ahead, and my grandparents’ wedding anniversary would have been today, 30 June.
What started as a sore throat as I watched the end of the Comrades Marathon 2014 on 1 June had within three days turned to bronchitis. Over the next twenty-two days I had five doctor’s appointments, courses of industrial-strength antibiotics, cortisone and three-times-daily interactions with a nebuliser. By last week it turned to pleurisy. In all I have been at work on five days this month, most of them single days heralding relapses.
Despite being plain worn out and feeling as weak as a waterless goldfish there is a glimmer of energy feeding my annoyance at wasted opportunities, the prospect of months ahead trying to avoid any further respiratory infection and rebuilding my immunity from well-nigh rock bottom. There isn’t much I can do about the lost time except, mentally at least, pack as much as possible into the next ten and a half hours, and look forward to a quality-laden July.