When I am wrong. I like to admit I am wrong. I like to shout it from the rooftops and have it be the headliner of all my interactions for a set duration after said discovery. What am I saying? I struggle, very much to admit when I am wrong, and any acknowledgement, will come somewhat begrudgingly, usually, a long time after the deed was done. Today, I admit I was wrong.
And so, here we are, it would appear that I, Emma Jane Jones was wrong. Last year, I was too quick to judge the attention seeking, social media using public. Phew. I can breathe again. Hang on, I cannot, because I feel like I have plasticine stuffed up both nostrils and goo stuck in my throat.
Last year, I freely criticised those who complained about their trifling colds and coughs like they had been diagnosed with something worse than an incurable form of cancer, and labelled them insensitive. I wish, I thought. I believe, though the recollection is somewhat hazy, that I wished to just suffer from a cold. In the deepest darkest pits of my side effects, I thought that a cold would be a piece of cake, a walk in the park, a breeze. It’s not. It’s just one long wheeze, and I am surprised by how super pathetically, I am managing it.
I currently have my third bug post transplant. I am told that this is pretty normal. The sensation I have felt for the last few days does not feel normal.x I used to function with a cold, I used to like the sound of my own voice with a cold, I used to just plough on and on when I had a cold. With this cold, I am not ploughing on and I am not really functioning. In it’s wake is self pity, paranoia and frustration. After all I have been through, after all I have managed, are you seriously telling me that I can be made bed bound by a cough and a few sniffles? Yes, evidentially, that is the case. I am utterly ashamed of myself. I should laugh in the face of this cold, but instead, I am producing the most disgusting sounding coughs, which I am sure are driving Housemate as mad as they are me, downing cough medicine and imagining that every symptom is a new cancer. That’s the legacy of My Myeloma, everything is sinister.
I know what common sense says. I know why I keep collecting bugs and I know why the linger, but that does not stop me from becoming a moody bum whose sum of daily accomplishments is switching from BBC IPlayer to Netflix and back again.
The post transplant world is tough you know. Post remission world, I am learning, is categorised by setbacks and occasional disappointment.
And having a cold, is one unexpected, major, disappointment.