It only hurts when I breathe

Press, 27 July 1988, Page 12

It only hurts when I breathe

There are two golden rules for your first week at a new job. The first is not making or receiving a multitude of personal telephone calls; the second, not taking days off to be ill in.

So it was with some embarrassment that I discovered half-way through my first day that someone had lit a bonfire in my lung. In an effort to ignore it, I concentrated on unravelling the mysteries of the V.D.U. which was an integral part of my work.

It is an awesome piece of equipment for a novice, and it seemed sensible to press the one button which I understood. It was marked “Help.” My feelings exactly.

For the next seven hours, the V.D.U. and the bonfire competed for my attention. At 5.30 p.m., the bonfire was ahead, two to one.

By the time I hit the bed that night I was, as they say in surf life-saving circles, in severe difficulties.

“Does it hurt?” my husband asked kindly, after I had disturbed his sleep on the hour, every hour, for five hours.

“Only when I breathe,” I said, with complete honesty.

It speaks volumes for his patience, after only a few snatched hours of sleep, that he did not suggest I give up breathing.

The next morning, I started getting ready for work. Like most people, I have one or two sure-fire indicators that I am not on form. So, as a person whose face does not make personal appearances without several layers of make-up, I knew I was in trouble when I boarded the bus with unblushed cheeks and eyes au naturelie.

The second, and infinitely more disturbing indicator, was my inability to smoke.

Now this may seem logical to a non-smoker, or even a smoker of the casual kind. To dedicated smokers, it is nothing less than an earth-shattering revelation.

My first tentative drawback of the day was while I was waiting for the bus. My lung promptly decided enough was enough. If I was going to smoke, it was going to withdraw its labour.

I conceded defeat and rang my doctor when I got to work., . One doctor’s visit, trip to the hospital and diagnosis of pneumonia later, I found myself propped up on a pillow mountain contemplating the view from the bedroom window.

In soap operas, potentially life-threatening illnesses are always marked, with accompanying drum rolls, by a crisis point.

My particular crisis point was having to ring my employer-of-eight-hours to tell him I needed a couple of days off. That particular hurdle over, I then spent a contemplative five minutes wondering what I was going to do. My son broke this meditation by toddling in bearing a plate of toast, of which several small nibbles had already been taken. Cups of tea followed at regular intervals, accompanied by the paper, two dogs, one baby and a harqssed-looking father. The children were then, banned from the bedroom

in the interests of “Mummy having a little sleep.”

Such was the attraction of Mummy being at home during the day, however, that child number one soon found that by leaping a few feet off the ground, he could pull down the door handle.

Thus, in the middle of a short nap I was awakened by the bedroom door opening slowly to reveal a small and very frightened child hanging from the door handle, knuckles white and feet nowhere near the ground. By the second day, resigned to staying in bed, I decided to enjoy myself. After failing to persuade my husband to provide me with a little bell to tinkle whenever I needed anything, I pressed my son into active service.

Being too small to relay messages verbally, I wrote a series of notes which I pinned to his jersey. Then, bribed with a chocolate, he would trot willingly to his father bearing glad tidings. Several of these “glad tidings” later my husband informed me of the one golden rule for being a good patient. “Don’t push your luck.” Suitably chastened, I spent the rest of the afternoon teaching my son to cut paper dolls out of pieces of paper. I think I shall go back to work tomorrow.