Calendar An icon of a desk calendar. Cancel An icon of a circle with a diagonal line across. Caret An icon of a block arrow pointing to the right. Email An icon of a paper envelope. Facebook An icon of the Facebook "f" mark. Google An icon of the Google "G" mark. Linked In An icon of the Linked In "in" mark. Logout An icon representing logout. Profile An icon that resembles human head and shoulders. Telephone An icon of a traditional telephone receiver. Tick An icon of a tick mark. Is Public An icon of a human eye and eyelashes. Is Not Public An icon of a human eye and eyelashes with a diagonal line through it. Pause Icon A two-lined pause icon for stopping interactions. Quote Mark A opening quote mark. Quote Mark A closing quote mark. Arrow An icon of an arrow. Folder An icon of a paper folder. Breaking An icon of an exclamation mark on a circular background. Camera An icon of a digital camera. Caret An icon of a caret arrow. Clock An icon of a clock face. Close An icon of the an X shape. Close Icon An icon used to represent where to interact to collapse or dismiss a component Comment An icon of a speech bubble. Comments An icon of a speech bubble, denoting user comments. Comments An icon of a speech bubble, denoting user comments. Ellipsis An icon of 3 horizontal dots. Envelope An icon of a paper envelope. Facebook An icon of a facebook f logo. Camera An icon of a digital camera. Home An icon of a house. Instagram An icon of the Instagram logo. LinkedIn An icon of the LinkedIn logo. Magnifying Glass An icon of a magnifying glass. Search Icon A magnifying glass icon that is used to represent the function of searching. Menu An icon of 3 horizontal lines. Hamburger Menu Icon An icon used to represent a collapsed menu. Next An icon of an arrow pointing to the right. Notice An explanation mark centred inside a circle. Previous An icon of an arrow pointing to the left. Rating An icon of a star. Tag An icon of a tag. Twitter An icon of the Twitter logo. Video Camera An icon of a video camera shape. Speech Bubble Icon A icon displaying a speech bubble WhatsApp An icon of the WhatsApp logo. Information An icon of an information logo. Plus A mathematical 'plus' symbol. Duration An icon indicating Time. Success Tick An icon of a green tick. Success Tick Timeout An icon of a greyed out success tick. Loading Spinner An icon of a loading spinner. Facebook Messenger An icon of the facebook messenger app logo. Facebook An icon of a facebook f logo. Facebook Messenger An icon of the Twitter app logo. LinkedIn An icon of the LinkedIn logo. WhatsApp Messenger An icon of the Whatsapp messenger app logo. Email An icon of an mail envelope. Copy link A decentered black square over a white square.

Kerry Hudson: ‘Reverse hypochondria’ is my most surprising symptom of chronic illness

Sadly, we very rarely fully appreciate reliably rude health until it has passed us by.

With chronic illness, a 'good' health day may look like a sick day to other people (Image: fizkes/Shutterstock)
With chronic illness, a 'good' health day may look like a sick day to other people (Image: fizkes/Shutterstock)

For the first 40 years of my life, I was rude with health. Saying that retrospectively, it does seem like rudeness – thoughtless, brazen – at least physically.

My mental health, as I have written before, was a whole other matter; my body seemed unstoppable.

I travelled all over the world and ate delicious food from hole-in-the-wall street vendors and, while my travel companions were waylaid in their guesthouses for two weeks, struggling to keep down a diet of plain rice and bananas, my cast-iron stomach went back for second and third helpings.

When my colleagues in my office were cast down for weeks at a time with “that flu doing the rounds”, I breezed through winter and spring with only a slight sniffle.

In fact, my wellness was even ruder because, despite being bestowed the greatest gift of unshakable health, I was also a terrible hypochondriac. My mild sniffles, absolutely nothing compared to my colleague’s very real illness, would send me to bed, where I’d prop myself up on pillows like a pampered duchess, surrounding myself with my favourite snacks, load up some bingeable TV, and luxuriate in my illness, guilt-free.

But at 41, everything changed. I became sick, not with one but two rare autoimmune illnesses, and the health I had taken terribly for granted – eating sporadically and badly, drinking like a sailor on leave, pushing my body to its limits with work and exercise and barely sleeping – just… gave up.

Now chronically ill, it’s my good days that are sporadic. Someone said to me recently that when they’re ill, they can’t ever imagine being better, and when they are well, they can’t ever imagine getting sick again. And it was the truest thing I’ve ever heard of an autoimmune illness.

So, now, I am the opposite of a hypochondriac. Whatever that is.

My body can’t ‘push through’ the way it used to

Recently, I was doing a week of online creative writing teaching. My family and I were travelling to celebrate a new medication, methotrexate, which allowed me a miraculous four “good” days out of seven in the week. For this reason, I was teaching from Batumi, a seaside resort known as “the Las Vegas of the Black Sea”, on the border of Turkey and Georgia.

On the third morning, I woke up and the whole apartment, including the sea view, spun around like I was in a Hitchcock thriller. I leaned against the walls, as though navigating a fun house, to get myself to the bathroom and back. Then I lay curled up in a ball with my eyes closed tight.

Whereas before, with the slightest hint of malaise, I’d have happily curled myself up under a duvet and enjoyed a leisurely sick day, it took my husband a full hour to convince me that I probably wasn’t going to be able to impart my creative writing wisdom if I couldn’t sit upright or keep my eyes open for longer than 10 minutes without needing to vomit. And, so, I finally admitted defeat and called in sick.

Occasional days off work with minor illnesses can feel like an enjoyable rest (Image: Chaay_Tee/Shutterstock)

The fact is that when you are healthy and busy and you take your health for granted, a sick day can feel like a luxury. A little, self-imposed break where you’re allowed – encouraged, even – to do nothing. But, when illness is part of your everyday life, you will jump some impressive mental somersaults in order to avoid acknowledging that it is happening.

I still use the term “push through”, just as I did when I was well, even though, these days, it often means meeting a deadline from bed and staying up past 9pm. But, even then, I know full well that even if mentally I want to, physically my body just will not cooperate.

I dream of running

Often at night, I dream I am running. In the dream, I always think the same thing: that I never realised how good I was at running; how graceful and easy the movement is. And I run through the streets fast, greeting people as I speed past, the wind in my hair.

In fact, I used to be a runner in real life. Not a very good one, thanks to my short hamstrings and, it turned out, my encroaching autoimmune symptoms, but I did once run 12 miles through the streets of London, past the Royal Courts of Justice, along the Thames, smiling at tourists as I went.

I don’t run yet, but I step forward thoughtfully, with gratitude, when I can summon it, and with acceptance when I cannot

Now, my marathon is different. My feats of endurance are no longer physical but mental. I wake each day and assess the course in front of me, I take note of the physical resources I have or do not have.

I’m trying to reframe this reverse form of hypochondria not, as I’m sure it is, as a form of denial and frustration, but instead somehow a contorted gratitude for the healthy days. Days when I’m well enough to dance around the kitchen with my toddler at breakfast, potter around the shops for no other reason than I feel like it, and cook a meal for my family.

My rude health has somehow turned into what I think of as a grateful illness, at least on the best days. I don’t run yet, but I step forward thoughtfully, with gratitude, when I can summon it, and with acceptance when I cannot. And, one day, perhaps I will also be able to run again, smiling at people as I go.


Kerry Hudson is an Aberdeen-born, award-winning writer of novels, memoirs and screenplays

Conversation