This story has made me ashamed that I don’t live with happiness
I have a new problem. I really do think I’m going bald. As I washed and twisted my hair, I noticed that there were a few big, thick hanks. It’s enough for me to stuff a pillow. I often wonder whether there is one small window of a woman’s life where everything goes along swimmingly. My split ends were my obsession at school. To fix my split ends, I bought sachets Protein 21 at Boots. For fear of being criticized by others, I never sat in front anyone at bus stops or assembly. I don’t know why my mum didn’t march me to a hairdresser.
In my 20s I suffered from terrible, weeping breakouts. My 30s was a time when I became obsessed with the fact that I saw floaters all day. My biggest fear was not finding a man to love me.
To exercise my nether areas, I bought vaginal cones. In my 40s I was worried about my husband cheating. My 50s was all about money. Now? Now? I’ve had almost a year of not knowing if the room would be tilted when I wake up. Now that I have the vertigo under control, I’m turning into Kojak.
Ann sends me an email. Ann, a reader, sends me an email. She’s concerned about my vertigo. But she would also have been susceptible to arthritis – she was indeed in later life confined to a wheelchair, then a bed – and if I inherited the hypermobility gene, that could be causing my vertigo, due to movement in my neck and spine. She is a great source of information and contacts for specialist.
Ann then speaks to me about Jenny, Ann’s daughter who is now 35. It was 16 years ago that she contracted a virus while studying at university. Her condition is severe myalgic-encephalomyelitis, which can cause inflammation of the brain or spinal cord. Although she is an accomplished poet, she has been unable to write more than one poem per calendar year. In January 2020 she was unable to see TV. She can’t move her head off her pillow. She can’t look up, down or side-to-side. She can’t be washed or have her pyjamas or bedding changed because if she moves her neck even a tiny bit, this causes massive damage that could kill her. She has severe respiratory problems and is constantly in distress. A patch of ceiling is within her field of vision; that’s it. Audio books are her only hope. She hopes that she can raise enough money to visit a US surgeon, since no one in America can assist her.
Ann, now her daughter’s carer, sends me a photo. Jenny is beautiful. She reminds me of Jane Austen. This photo haunts me. My day was dreadful. I was facing deadlines and a lengthy train ride, with no first-class food, as well stress. Stella Tennant was the model that took her own lives. What must it have been like for her not to want to die. And so I got up and I went about my day, but not with good grace, or any joy that I’m still alive. Stella did get me out of bed.
As I stare up at Snowdonia’s ceiling, my thoughts turn to Jenny. Hearing her story has made me ashamed I don’t live with any happiness. And I’m wondering if we could do something for Jenny. You could give Jenny the gift of a TV Christmas special. Even turning her head. It would. My life isn’t so bad, and her mum bothered to reach out to me. Let’s all reach out to Jenny, so she can get the surgery she needs. Let’s make her Christmas amazing. Let’s give her something to live for…
If you want to help, please go to gofundme.com/savejenny and jkrowbory.co.uk
Liz’s debut novel, 8½ Stone, is available as an audiobook on Amazon, Audible and Apple Books. Spotify is soon to follow.
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Join Liz and her trusty (long-suffering) assistant Nicola as they dissect her weekly YOU magazine diary and delve into the archives to relive the bust-ups, betrayals, bullets… and much more in this brilliant podcast. They’re outspoken, outrageous and utterly hilarious. You can listen now to Apple Podcasts on Spotify, Google Podcasts, and Mailplus.co.uk