(All images are AI created)

The thing about me is this: I can be perfectly healthy one minute — bustling about, doing normal chores, feeling quite pleased with myself — and then, without so much as a polite warning, wham! Something sneaks up behind me and floors me into a limp wimp.

Friday, 24 April was meant to be a happy day. My Cape Town kids were on their way, the lodger had vacated their room after breakfast, and I attacked the linen-changing, vacuuming and bathroom-mopping with great  enthusiasm. Everything was sparkling, I was sparkling, and the whole house was practically humming with anticipation.

Baby Daughter had taken a week’s leave and was already there. The weather looked promising. Life was good. And then — at precisely 11 a.m. — my body decided to stage a dramatic collapse. A wave of exhaustion hit me so hard I thought, “Oh no. I’ve just survived a UTI and I’m on the last of the antibiotics. I absolutely refuse to be sick again.”

Baby Daughter took one look at my face and said, “Mom, go lie down. You don’t look well.”
When your child uses that tone, you obey.

I thought a short nap would sort me out. Instead, I woke at 3 p.m. with a slight cough and a fever of 38.5°C. Lovely.

My GP, naturally, had chosen that exact weekend to be out of town. So off I went the next morning to a different doctor who took one look at me and declared, “It’s Flu.” She prescribed Tamiflu and paracetamol and told me to rest — which was no problem at all because at that point I could barely lift my eyelashes.

Meanwhile, my poor visiting family tiptoed around the house, keeping a respectful distance lest they catch the dreaded lurgy. They carried on gamely without me while I slept, coughed, and generally impersonated a wilted houseplant.

The weekend drifted by in a sort of feverish fog — my temperature rising and falling in perfect synchrony with my paracetamol intake. But improvement? None.

Then came Freedom Day, the Cape Town clan bade me farewell and told me to get well soon as they took their departure.  But my body celebrated by staging a small rebellion. A sharp pain in my right breast appeared out of nowhere. Pneumonia, I thought immediately, because the symptom was similar to my 2012 and 2019 attack.  The first being no hospital, the second a five-day stint in hospital.  Still, I decided to wait for my own GP to return the next day.

First thing Tuesday morning I phoned the practice sister, who told me to come in at 13:15. Perfect. I could manage that, get some antibiotics, and be back to normal in no time.

But at 12 noon — precisely when I was congratulating myself on my timing — a savage chest pain attacked me, shooting down behind my shoulder blade like a lightning bolt with bad manners. I yelled for Baby Daughter, who bundled me into the car. Just as she was about to drive off, a wave of nausea hit me. She shouted for Dad to bring a bucket, but too late – alas, the gutter received the full performance. Not my finest moment.

At the practice they whisked me straight into an examination room.  The doctor listened to my heart, started a drip, did an ECG, and Sister handed me a sick-bag while I dry‑heaved like an amateur actress in a medical drama. Something soothing went into the drip, and the nausea finally surrendered.

Then the doctor told Baby Daughter to go home and pack me a bag because they were calling an ambulance. She returned with Dad, who looked only mildly concerned — he’s survived enough of his own medical adventures and knew I would be in good hands.

Hooked to a drip and clutching my treacherous shoulder, I endured the most bone‑rattling ambulance ride imaginable. By the time we arrived, I felt I deserved a bravery medal for surviving the potholes alone.

At casualty I was greeted by a doctor, a sister, and a physician who was casually eating an apple. Naturally, I quipped, “An apple a day keeps the doctor away — yet here you are.” He was not amused.

Then came the usual hospital rituals: blood drawn, probes attached, drip adjusted, and a gown clearly designed by someone with no idea about human dignity. The physician announced, quite calmly, “Your heart is racing. We’re going to shock it back to normal.”

That sounds scary,” I said.

“Not for me,” he replied.

“Nor for me,” added Sister.

Before I could lodge a formal complaint, I was out cold. When I woke, the pain was gone, so naturally I asked if I could go home.

“No,” said Doctor, with the firmness of someone used to stubborn patients.

“Do I have pneumonia?”

“I think so. Your lungs don’t sound good.”

Soon a film crew arrived — not for glamorous me, sadly, but for my misbehaving lungs.

All I wanted was a proper bed and some peace, but instead I was sent to ICU, as both lungs had pneumonia. My area was sealed off with red tape beyond which none should cross unless appropriately attired because I had H1N1 flu as well.

I remained in that appalling backless gown unable to do anything for myself. Masked, gloved angels handled all ablutions with saintly kindness. Most of the time I slept and slept disturbed only to answer questions and endure blood pressure monitoring,  prodding, blood-letting and drip insertions.

The meals looked perfectly decent, but my body rejected the idea of food. Alcohol was scandalously forbidden. Drugs, however, were plentiful.

By Thursday the 3rd I was improving and moved to a private ward. Visitors still had to mask up as did I if I left my ward. Assisted by a physiotherapist I shuffled around the nurses’ station for exercise. She also pummelled my back and had me blowing bubbles through a straw into water — ridiculous, yes, but apparently excellent for the lungs.

Then on Sunday, just as I was feeling almost human again, my heart staged another protest, sending pain through my chest and shoulder blade. Back I went to high security, where Doctor treated it with a nil‑by‑mouth medicinal drip. After dreadful pain, half a painkiller, and a sleeping tablet, I drifted off like a tranquilised astronaut.

The next morning, I felt like a wrung‑out dishcloth, but at least the pain had vanished. By Tuesday I was allowed back to my private ward.

After sleeping most of Tuesday, I felt nearly myself by Wednesday. Then an X‑ray, scan, and sonar revealed fluid on my lungs, so on Thursday morning I had a pulmonary tap. I felt fine if a little tired but was sure I was ready to go home with my husband and daughter when they arrived to visit. However, Doctor and Baby Daughter insisted that I first go to a rehab facility to fully recover.

I was meant to be transferred immediately, but the ambulance only collected me the next afternoon (Friday). By then I felt much better, though still tired easily.

As I  said in my opening paragraph, I can go from perfect health to an invalid in an instant and the same is true in reverse – I tend to bounce right back.  And right now, I am feeling perfectly fine and a fraud for still being in hospital.   But the doctor and my family insist that I spend a few days in step-down to ensure I don’t overdo things and have a relapse.  Well let me out of here – let me tell you about STEP-DOWN

A lovely new doctor welcomed me and told me that Medical-Aid had approved a week or so of rehab – just lots of rest and gentle exercise, he assured me.  Saturday physio began with  a brisk walk around the grounds followed by a few leg lifts and squats in the gym – nothing too daunting – I could do this.

It was only on Sunday that I realised that this was not going to be a walk in the park with gentle strolls around the lovely facility.  Oh no – it’s more like a Prison camp with a Gestapo Officer after your blood.   Sunday afternoon and the torture began.

The Gestapo Officer for marched me round the prison to the torture chamber at a crisp pace then forced me into ankle chains and made me march on the spot for 2 minutes non-stop. This, however, was not enough for her so she made me do Step-ups for another 2 minutes. My pleas for mercy were ignored when, still in chains, she chased me up and down the training steps. After that it was dead lifting a 4kg ball up above my head and down again several times while she yelled keep your back straight. By this time, I was ready to confess all but no I then had to return to my cell by going up and down a flight of steps. Only then was I allowed to confess to the reason I’d landed here in the first place.

Fine – she said – The rest of The Gestapo and I will discuss your case on Tuesday  and then make a decision on your release date – depending on your behaviour!

And now there’s an added element that might prevent my early parole – the weather!   The hospital is an hour and a half from home and it is storming, trees across roads, flooding, rooves blowing off buildings etc. etc.  Too dangerous for Dad and Baby Daughter to come and rescue me.  I coped with another torture session this morning and again this afternoon.  I did okay so it will be interesting to hear what the parole hearing reveals tomorrow.   Weather permitting will I be allowed out? I certainly feel fit enough and if I can endure the tortures of the prison what can possibly go wrong at home?