The State of Me. Nasim Jafry Marie

       8 Bob

      THE SPECIALIST LOOKED like Bob Monkhouse. He had Myra’s letter in front of him. I tried to see what she’d written, if she’d admitted that she’d fucked up until the Coxsackie diagnosis.

      You’re very thin, said Bob. Have you got a boyfriend?

      Yes, I said, but what’s that got to do with the price of bread? (Into myself.)

      He listened as I listed my symptoms: exhaustion, severe muscle pain, weakness, dizziness, skull-crushing headaches, palpitations, stomach cramps, nausea, diarrhoea. (Do you really want me to go on, Bob?)

      We’re going to do some tests, he said. The Coxsackie virus can trigger a syndrome called blah-de-blah-de-blah. This may be what you have. We don’t know much about it. We’ll need to do a muscle biopsy and some other tests. Go outside and wait. Thank you. Goodbye.

      I went back to Rita in the waiting room. He looks like Bob Monkhouse, I said.

      We waited for almost an hour, staring at the plastic orange chairs and the paint peeling off the walls. A junior doctor wearing a polkadot tie appeared. He wasn’t much older than me.

      I’m just going to take some blood. Come this way.

      Another room. Legs shaking.

      He drew my blood, put it into three different tubes and labelled them.

      Do you know what’s wrong with me? I asked.

      He smiled at me but didn’t answer.

      Arched window. Muscle biopsy, early September 1984

      I lay on the trolley and gripped the nurse’s hand. The surgeon and student stood over me, green and gowned.

      Elegant legs, said the surgeon. We’re going to do a needle biopsy. You’ll just feel a little prick and then some pressure.

      I shut my eyes.

      He checked the area was numb and cut into my leg. I could feel the blood dripping down the parts that weren’t anaesthetised. Something pressed hard, down to my bone. I gripped tighter onto the nurse.

      Hard then nothing.

      Well done, Andrew, you’ve just done your first muscle biopsy! the surgeon announced triumphantly.

      (Yes, well done, Andrew! A fanfare of trumpets for Andrew, please! I don’t really mind that you used me as a guinea pig.)

      The surgeon patted my arm. I’m going to do another one. Nothing to worry about.

      More pressure. More skilled.

      They gave me those stitches that melt away. I was limping for ages. Andrew’s scar still gets in the way when I’m waxing my legs.

      I think he was a virgin.

      The yellow outpatient card on the kitchen pin-board had become my social calendar. My next engagement was an EMG – an electromyelogram. A needle attached to an oscilloscope was inserted into the muscle on the back of my arm and I had to move my finger up and down ‘til my arm ached.

      It’s the beginning of October 1984, a new term! We’re looking through the round window.

      The Junior Honours students are waiting for the Head of Modern Languages to address them. They’ve all done their year abroad. They’re grown up now. But where’s Helen?! We can’t see Helen!

      That’s because she’s at home in bed. Or maybe she’s on the couch.

      Her symptoms have signed a lease behind her back and moved in permanently. They like living in her muscle tissue. It’s nice and warm there.

      Ivan comes to stay some weekends. He studies in the spare room. He writes essays on liposomes and leaves behind half-eaten oranges. It’s his final year.

      Jana’s got a new flatmate, Beryl, who’s doing French and English. She’s a busty punk with a harelip, who loves cooking. She’s an amateur opera singer.

      She sounds like good fun, I say.

      It’s like living with fucking Puccini, Jana replies.

      A week before my twenty-first, I was summoned to Bob’s consulting room for the second time. He was expressionless as I sat down on the orange chair.

      You have a whole range of abnormalities, he said. Your muscles aren’t producing energy normally.

      Why not? I said.

      We think you have ME, myalgic encephalomyelitis. It’s a post-viral syndrome, triggered by the Coxsackie virus, in your case. There’s no cure and it can last for five years. We’re doing some clinical trials which we would like you to take part in. We’ll be in touch. Can you ask your mother to come in now?

      I came out and Rita went in. Someone had left a Daily Record on the chair next to mine. I picked it up and looked at the front-page photo of Princess Diana with her six-week-old baby.

      When Rita came out of Bob’s room, her eyes were watering.

      On the way home in the car, I hoped we’d crash and that I’d be killed instantly and Rita would walk away without a scratch. I kept thinking of the David Bowie song Five Years:…steady drums, louder and louder and louder…high, violiny bit.

      Helen has a diagnosis! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! She has blah-de-blah-de-blah, it’s official! She’s got Malingerer’s Elbow! She’s chronically fatigued! She’s a yuppie with flu!

      Whatever your point of view, she’s fucked.