Singular life
It's sick
Petronella Wyatt
Naturally, as it is the Christmas period, I have been ill. I am ill every Christmas. Last year I won a respite and was allowed to catch a cold. But the year before that was par for the course. I stayed with Olga Polizzi and William Shawcross at the Tre- santon Hotel in Cornwall and came down with a temperature of 101.
This meant that I almost missed William dressing up as Santa Claus and distributing presents to the hotel guests. This was a sight too delicious not to be witnessed. So it was fortunate that I was able to rise from my sick-bed and savour it. You might wonder at my being ill over Christmas and assume that it has, subliminally, something to do with my disliking the event.
This ain't so. The truth is that I am becoming ill more and more often each year. You could jump to all sort of conclu- sions about this: that I am weak and pathetic; that I am a malingerer; that I suf- fer from bouts of self-inflicted and imagi- nary stress. As Bernard Shaw said, `Subjective? It's all in the mind.'
All the above conclusions would be right. But none is the real reason. The real rea- son is that, over the past two years, I have found myself in the uncomfortable position of seeing some of my friends become seri- ously ill and then die. This makes me angry and resentful. I am young. Surely this sort of thing should happen to someone at least approaching middle-age. Yet four times in the last six months I have opened a news- paper to see the obituary of someone I knew well.
Why is everybody dying suddenly? We are supposed to be living in a time when longevity is becoming well more and more longaevous, but why is it that everyone has cancer? I have never known a time when so many people have cancer. And these are people who were never ill in their lives. Fit • people. People who glowed with health and well-being.
Then I remembered the old Greek story about the man who had everything: money, looks, health, love and power. The gods were angry because his life was too perfect. It failed to propitiate them. The man thought of throwing away his gold ring but a fish swallowed it and brought it back again. So the gods punished him and struck him down. Then I think of my friends who are ill or dying and think of how they all enjoyed their lives and families. How healthy and attractive they were.
I make no claims for my attractiveness but I have certainly enjoyed what life I have been permitted so far. So it occurred to me that I too had done nothing to propi- tiate the gods. Perhaps they are up there seething with indignation and planning some dreadful revenge. What was I to do to stave this off?
Alas, I have no priceless jewellery to chuck into the river. If a fish swallowed any of my rings he would certainly bring them back, though not out of generosity. So the idea came to me of being ill instead. If I came to be regarded as sickly perhaps the gods would take pity and not kill me off. I have always had what the doctors used to call a delicate metabolism. When someone sneezed I caught a cold. When a classmate had measles I contracted them. I have the world's only immune system that is immune to itself.
So the only task was to milk the situation for all it was worth. To stand out in the rain without an umbrella. To wear a thin sweater on a cold day. To wash my hair and omit to dry it and then go out on the street. To wit, since September I have had three viruses, two colds and two cases of stomach flu. This has certainly curtailed my enjoyment of things if not terminated it altogether. I pray that the gods are taking note. Can I propitiate them with colds and flu so they won't give me cancer? How long must I be ill for and how many times a year? These are the questions occupying my mind as the New Year draws in. You probably think I am mad. But prevention is the best cure.
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