Writing for Fun
September 2018
The endless illness - Sue Barker
John’s mother had died when he was only 8 years old, and that was the last year he felt well.
Until then John had a normal childhood. He had several friends. They spent every summer running wild and free. Their base was the field in the village, they would meet in the morning, carrying a squashed sandwich and some pop for lunch. Their imagination held no bounds, they were knights or cowboys depending on which TV programme they had watched the night before. John, David and Barry were firm friends, sharing jokes and the odd lunch swap if John had jam more than three days on the trot. This happened more often since his mum had been poorly. His dad said it wasn’t anything to worry about. But he had lied, the unimaginable happened and it seemed to happen so quickly. By the end of the summer holidays it was just John and Dad at home.
John remembered going to school and having to tell his friends about his mum dying. That evening he came home and he had a headache. This was very understandable; under the circumstance. But this was only the beginning. By Christmas John had insisted that he needed the doctor on eight separate occasions. Finally at the end of his tether John’s dad sat him down and said it had to stop, there was absolutely nothing wrong with him. It was all in his mind. But John knew different.
His Dad tried his best to comfort the young lad, spending hour sitting on the end of his bed with his arms holding John tightly, tenderly kissing the top of his adored son’s head, doing his best to assure the little boy that he was healthy and that it was all in his imagination. But John was convinced he was ill and his Dad had lied to him about his mum so how could he believe him when he said there was nothing wrong.
John struggled through his youth and went on to college. He still had a few minor illnesses but they were never minor to John. His worrying would build even a cold into flu in his mind. A headache would be the onset of a brain tumour and he could not be dissuaded or comforted unless he had a medical opinion and often a second opinion.
His 30’s passed, he still saw his two best friends down the pub; he noticed that they gave each other a ‘look’ whenever he started fretting about being sick and not being able to get a doctor’s appointment. He’d already changed surgeries numerous times; why didn’t they train doctors properly any more.? A 10 minute appointment for all his ailments was never enough. One doctor had the nerve to suggest he spoke to a counsellor for God’s sake. He was ill, not mad.
He didn’t find a long term partner until he was in his 40’s. Although he was a popular guy, when he was feeling well he was very entertaining; but the other side of the coin was very different. His marriage to Laura didn’t last long, she could not cope with the depression John suffered with every illness, real or imaginary it didn’t make any difference. So all alone in his 60’s he spent a lot of his pension on private medical tests. If there was a 1% chance he had anything he would pay for a test. He had a bad head and the doctor, it couldn’t be his usual one, said there was a small chance of a tumour. So John paid for the scan, nothing was there but John wasn’t convinced and thought they’d missed something.
There was no consoling him; his friends drifted away, slowly one by one. Even David and Barry didn’t call round so much, their wives refused to have him round as he got everyone down. They knew John couldn’t help it; it all stemmed back to that summer when he was 8; but 50 odd years later it was too much to keep comforting or cajoling him from the depths of his depression.
Eventually he had spent all his savings and had downsized so often to pay out thousands of pounds to the local private hospital. He now lived in a grotty little bedsit; tiny grubby and smelling slightly of mould. It was to become his prison; hardly stepping out from the four walls unless he had to; for food or an essential doctor’s appointment.
The years passed and he still suffered many imaginary illnesses but with no money left to check anything out, his worrying was out of control. He knew he had something terminal; the worrying took its toll and John finally took his last breath. He had been ill for 67 years and no-one believed him.
In years gone by, in lighter moments, he joked to his friends that he would share the same quote on his headstone as Spike Milligan: ‘I told you I was ill’.