I've coughed so much in the last couple of days that it hurts. It hurts my throat. It hurts my head. It hurts my chest. And yet I still cough. In years gone past I would have ignored this. Not taken any medication. Not done much more than perhaps sprinkle a few drops of Olbas oil on my pillow. Now I've taken my day/night nurse capsules (mostly just paracetamol). I've stayed in PJs, not gone out. I've cancelled meetings and social trips. I've watched banal (as well as invigorating) TV programmes. I've admitted to being ill.
The hardest bit about accepting this level of ill is that I haven't been out in the snow. I've not thrown a snowball, not made a snowman (or snow-woman!).
I've not wrapped up in layers, put on wellies and made my footprints the first in any patch of white. I want to trudge through it before it turns to ice and slush. I want to run across an expanse of pristine snow.
Of course I don't run anywhere now. The director of the play I am currently rehearsing (and, yes, I've had to cancel going to a rehearsal too) recently pointed out that it wouldn't be credible for my character regularly to play tennis and run 2 - 3 miles round a golf course. And she based that on my stiffness when standing up out of a chair. This is the first time I will have to incorporate a major character and script change as a result of my MS. I have suggested that we could replace reference to running with cycling - you can do that sitting down! I haven't cycled for a week but I will soon. Or rather I will when the ice and snow have diminished and my coughing and sneezing have eased enough for me to breathe in without inducing an onslaught of phlegm and sputum. I'll leave you with that image. Now, where's my pile of tissues?