Everyone’s Ill

'How many years is it now?', the poet says.  'Ten years? More than ten?' It's set adrift in his life, he says. A part of his life adrft in his life, like a floater in the eye. What happened then? What happened back then?

He was unemployed, he says, and she, Ann, was ill. He was on unemployment benefit, she on sickness benefit. Or was it the other way round? She was unemployed, undoubtedly. But illness was her thing. If you asked her why she didn't work, she'd tell you she was ill. She was taking some time for herself, she said.

He had his ill days, he said, but he regarded himself as being unemployed. Ask him why he didn't work, and he said, quoting the song, I've never had a job and never wanted one, even though that wasn't quite true. He was a part-time TEFL teacher, really. He taught English in a Foreign Language. He taught foreigners, he said. But he claimed benefits as well. He only worked part-time, after all.

He, anyway, was unemployed, and she was ill, says the poet. But then, she told him that he, too, was ill. She was a great believer in illness. Everyone's ill, she once declared. Everyone would be ill, she said, if only they would allow themselves to be. She had allowed herself to become ill, she said. It was a liberation. And now, he, too, should let himself become ill. It was time to be ill!, she said. 

'Now, Ann had a friend who was even more ill than she was' the poet says. 'Claire was a kind of exemplary ill person, the measure of all illness. She was a former businesswoman, Claire. She lived in sheltered accommodation. People brought her meals. – "I don't go out much", she said as we drank tea in her flat. She couldn't go outside.

'It was rush hour. The cars were jammed outside. Claire was too clever, her doctor told her. That was her problem. Too clever. – "Clever people like us always become ill", she told us. Like us: did Claire really see illness in me? Her flat was dark. She kept it so, she said.

'She told us of her former life. Of her intelligence. She was very convinced about her intelligence. She'd put on so much weight, she said. She never used to look like this, she said. But after her nervous breakdown …, she said, and let the sentence trail off.

'Claire had panic attacks went she went outside, she said. And she felt terribly exhausted. Tired all the time. But she thought she might get better. She held on to the idea of recovery. One day, when I get better …, she said. One day. But what day?

'She's working on herself, Ann said, when we left. She was working on herself, she who could barely get up from the sofa to make a cup of tea. Illness was working on her. On us all!, Ann thought.

'Ann herself was expecting to get sicker. She was spending less and less time outdoors. It was time for her, too, to stay in, she said. Time for her to draw the blinds. Was she as clever as her friend?, Ann asked me. I said she was very clever, very perceptive. Then she might get very ill, she said. She was frightened.

'How can the weak help the weak?, the poet says. How could he, an unemployed man, help an ill woman? He thought she was strong enough – she was a landlady, after all; she owned property; she had a big car with a toolbox at the back – but she was getting weaker. She thought she'd sell one of the houses, she said. And she might sell her car. Maybe she'd sell her second house, too, and arrange for sheltered accommodation.

'That was where she was heading, she thought. She was preparing to be ill, very ill, she said. She wanted to give up everything for illness, to let her illness be itself. She wanted to be alone. I was no help. I had spent years falling more deeply into unemployment. I was more unemployed than anyone! And there she was, preparing to become more ill than anyone.

'She sent me to her GP and told me what symptoms to report. It wasn't a lie, she said. I had the symptoms – she could see it – but it was just a question of reporting them correctly. I told the doctor I felt tired, very tired. That my limbs ached. That I was photophobic, and that when I went outside, I only wanted to go back inside. I was agoraphobic, I told her, but that when I was inside, I only wanted to go back outside. I'm claustrophobic, I told her.

'I could barely sleep, I told her. And when I did, I had terrifying dreams. I couldn't stand getting on the bus, I told her. I couldn't stand other people. I felt they were watching me, criticising me. And I couldn't eat in public, I told her – Ann told me not to forget that one. In fact, I had trouble eating in private. I couldn't keep food down, I told her. I had a nervous stomach. I had nervous indigestion – Ann had taught me that phrase. I get headaches, terrible headaches, I told her.

'The GP sent me to their in-house specialist, whose office was in the basement of the surgery. I've been feeling tired for months, I told her. Exhausted! She made me fill in a questionaire. When did I feel most tired, it asked me. All the time, I wrote. Do I feel pain?, it asked me. Frequently, I wrote. Do I ache anywhere? Everywhere, I wrote. Do I have stomach problems? Continually, I wrote.

'The diagnosis was clear. There was no question about it. I have the condition myself, the in-house specialist said. She had it too! We both had it, the pair of us. No wonder Ann liked it here. There was a sense of fellowship. Of fellow feeling. She had the condition, the in-house doctor said, and so did her sister, who was confined to bed. Her sister's children were being looked after by someone else, the in-house specialist said.

'I was instructed on how to handle my symptoms. Take it easy, she said. Plan everything when you have strength, so that when you feel weak, you're not overwhelmed with worry. Arrange your life so there's no stress, no panic.

'Should I go out?, I asked her. Not unless it's strictly necessary, she said. Should I get buses? I should avoid buses, she said, and public spaces. She avoided public spaces, she said. She found them very taxing.

'It's common to highly successful people, our illness, she told me. I'm hardly successful, I told her. To highly motivated, intelligent people, she told me. I was flattered. So I was intelligent! Highly motivated! I told her I lacked motivation. It's the illness, she said. I told her I didn't feel highly intelligent. – "The trouble is, you're exhausted by your illness", she said.

'Am I really ill?, I asked her, doubting for a moment. Yes, I was really ill, she said. She was ill, too, she said. Is this illness common? Oh yes, she said, more and more people were being referred to her. And was our illness really an illness? Oh yes, she said, it's definitely an illness.

'I was lucky, she said. This was one of the few surgeries that took the condition seriously, she said. She gave me a pamphlet. It was full of practical advice and cartoons. The list of symptoms indicative of the illness seemed endless. They were listed down one page and halfway down another. Nausea. Depression. Listlessness. Stomach upset. Acid reflux …

'So, I was ill. I embraced my new identity as an ill man. I'd read The Magic Mountain. I expected great insights! I wondered about the people among whom I was walking on the narrow pavement. Were they ill, too?, I wondered. Did I, an ill man, have insight into their illness?

'Perhaps they were all ill, I thought. Perhaps that was the great secret. They were ill as I was ill, as Ann was ill and Claire was ill, only they didn't know it yet. I should hand out pamphlets, I thought. I should recommend my surgery.

'How many times did Ann I meet, after that? Not many. It's not a romantic story after all, is it? We were on separate paths. Separately ill, she heading in her direction, a little further ahead than me, and I heading in mine, a newly ill person. An apprentice in illness.

'I remembered what I said to Ann when I first met her. I'm don't think I'm ill, I said, just tired. Ann said she was sure I was ill. She was certain of it. Don't fight it, she said. And I hadn't fought it. I was letting myself be ill, she said. I'd let myself be ill. Did I understand what that meant?

'Soon, I'd be too frightened to go out, she predicted. It frightened her, stepping out of her house. Terraced houses in both directions, dark cliffs. It menaced her, she said. Everyone with our condition gets frightened, she said. No one wants to go out.

'There are thousands of us, she said. Thousands!, I thought, imagine! Thousands of ill people, all over the city! This in the same cafe where we'd first met. This a few months after. Her car was outside. She wanted to make a quick getaway, she said. Public spaces frightened her, she said. It was too much.

'Off she went, leaving me alone with my Purdeys. Would I, too, have to plan for sheltered accommodation? Would I have to give it all up and let myself get really ill?'