I have a deep vein thrombosis.
It doesn’t hurt. The treatment is two pills a day and a made-to-measure elastic popsock.
But last week I was throwing a tantrum because I’m not allowed to do anything that raises my heartrate. This includes cycling, brisk walking, and gardening – exactly the kinds of things I like to do on sunny autumn days. I had so much work planned for the garden. And hasn’t the weather been perfect for autumn gardening? Still, sunny, a little rain.
But the nurse’s instruction to do nothing but “potter” was for three weeks only, so why was I making such a fuss? Last week I was weeping down the phone at my saxophone teacher. It wasn’t just the infirmity, but the shock. So I really am mortal: it’s something I thought I always bore in mind. Apparently not. I need to get over my impatience and frustration and grow up. I need to be a stoic like my mother and my sisters.
On Saturday I read a cheerful piece by a journalist who is a tetraplegic after a riding accident, and it made me realise how little I have to complain about.
So I’m over it…which is why I can now confess it all to you, dear readers.