On Cough

‘English, which can express the thoughts of Hamlet and the tragedy of Lear, has no words for the shiver and the headache.’ Virginia Woolf, On Illness

A cold. Not flu. Not influenza, a word I like. The one from the old days when people didn't have a Tesco Express nearby to drag themselves for a packet of Lemsip.

It’s not a big thing. I don’t even have a temperature. The most dramatic consequence is to cancel a coffee with a friend I’d arranged for later. Nine hours of sleep, but my body feels it’s had only four or I have a terrible hangover (just a glass of red last night, after four teetotal days). Cough, everything comes from there, interrupting my sleep and waking me up. 

A cough triggers aches in parts I hadn’t paid attention for a long time. On every occasion the cough comes back, I’m pushed to remember how my body actually works.   

The neck, the shoulders, the belly – as a morning following a good night of laughter. Pressure on the temples, also in my forehead, as if I’d been wearing a too-tight helmet. The throat seems to be permanently busy today, constantly trying and failing to swallow a big ball of dough.

 

Read On Illness - and laugh; it’s surprisingly funny. The picture above is Virginia Woolf’s bed at Monk House, by John Cummings.