Confessing Rubbish Disorders

Hayfever is just about the wettest allergy there is. Seriously, being made to cry because of flowers and having to stay inside with all the windows shut because little bits of pollen might attack you. Well boohoo.

Not only do I have hayfever, the big snotty crying disorder, I also have a bad back. So I’m both incredibly wet and incredibly weak. Yay for me.

A bad back is one of those things that doesn’t really inspire sympathy from people, because there’s nothing obviously wrong with you. There’s not bits falling off your face, no amusing cast for people to drunkenly write their bar orders on, and you don’t black out, fall over or bleed randomly.

You just grunt when you stand up and complain a bit. Oh, and you look like an arsehole when you’re only carrying a little bit of shopping while your girlfriend is loaded up with bags.

The other day, I woke up at 4am and realised I couldn’t actually move. At all. Don’t know if you’ve ever not been able to move, but you might be surprised to find out that it’s really, really fucking rubbish. I eventually managed to roll onto the floor, and found that laying on the floor was worse than being in bed, and fought my way back up. In the movie version of this bit, it’ll be in black and white, slow motion with slow violin music playing over it. They’ll probably use some artistic license over the sleeping naked part, just so they don’t upset absolutely everyone.

Two hours of pain and bother later, I managed to get hold of NHS Direct. What followed was the single most humiliating thing that’s happened to me in bed. Genuinely. Even including the time she fell asleep.

The lovely, delightful nurse on the phone went through the generic opening questions about whether I could breathe (I’d be struggling on the phone if I couldn’t) and if I’d passed out recently (it’s six in the morning, I’ve had twenty minutes of sleep and I keep dropping off. I don’t know enough about the technicalities of sleep vs. being unconscious through other means to give a complete and intelligent answer to that question. I just said “no”.)

Then she asked The Question. Have you had any trouble urinating? Er, no. Because I haven’t tried. This isn’t good enough for her, with her crazy wee obsessed ways. She wants to know if I’ve wet myself. I start telling her about when I was four and I needed to go really badly and – no, she’s not interested. Have I wet myself recently.

I tell her I haven’t, because I haven’t. My word isn’t good enough for her, and she asks me to check. To fucking check. So there I am, flat on my back unable to move, digging about under the covers to see whether I’ve pissed the bed.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was when I knew I was getting old.