Hey, long time no blog. Last time I published a post, I certainly didn’t expect to spend two months away from you all. If you follow me on Facebook, twitter or Instagram, you’ll probably have some sense of what’s been going on, but just in case it’s completely passed you by, and for the sake of posterity, I’m going to run through all the gory details here.

Way back at the beginning of March, I was struck down with what I initially thought was a nasty virus. After a week of coughing and generally feeling terrible, I dragged myself to the GP who diagnosed a serious chest infection and prescribed a short course of antibiotics.

A few days later, the cough had finally cleared and I was just about well enough to get back to work. I still felt pretty grotty, but I put it down to the yukky meds and soldiered on regardless.

Soon, school holidays and the long Easter weekend were upon us, so we packed our bags and hopped on the train to Dorset. I was hoping for a leisurely stay at my parents’ house, but it soon became clear that the universe had other ideas. Jesse came down with a cold, and as is often the way, his sniffles soon turned into full-blown wheezing. Sensing an asthma attack, we called 999 and eventually found ourselves in A&E at Dorset County Hospital.

The waiting room was busy and ambulances kept rolling in as Jesse puffed away on his nebulizer. By the time they moved us upstairs, a row of gurneys lined the hall, the occupants of which coughed and spluttered as we ambled past. I’m not normally squeamish about these things, but the place really did feel like it was full of germs.

Ultimately, Jess was fine and after a long day on the children’s ward, we headed back to my parents’ house, determined to enjoy the last 24 hours of our stay before catching the train back to Bristol.

We were somewhere between Dorchester West and Temple Meads when I started to feel rough again. My cough was back and I could feel a fever brewing. Assuming the infection had returned, I went to bed early. The following morning, the GP confirmed my suspicions, prescribing a second course of antibiotics.

To be honest, the next few days are a bit of a blur. I remember it rained as I made my way back from the surgery. Once home, I peeled off my wet clothes and climbed into bed, drifting in and out of sleep for the next 24 hours. I couldn’t eat or drink and my head had started to hurt, just a little at first, but soon I could barely move my eyes without crying. The pain was excruciating.

On Friday morning, I phoned the GP, worried that I was feeling worse, rather than better. I knew I sounded slightly delirious on the phone. I could hear myself rambling, failing to finish sentences as I tried to explain my symptoms. The nurse gave me an appointment at 4pm and I promptly fell asleep again.

Meanwhile, Mr L.A. was preparing to take Izzy to London for the weekend as a belated birthday treat. It should have been all three of us going, but I’d already decided it was out of the question. Jesse was supposed to be staying with my parents and when my mum arrived to collect him, she offered to take me to the GP instead.

Sitting in the waiting room, I could barely open my eyes. My neck was stiff and the bright light made my head hurt even more. I felt so weak, I was sure the short walk to the examination room would be too much. I can honestly say I’ve never been so unwell in all my life.

After years of looking out for it in my own children, I knew I had classic symptoms of meningitis, and as the Doctor examined me I could sense her growing concern. Calling ahead on our behalf, she told us to urgently make our way to Southmead Hospital.

I don’t remember much about being admitted, but I do know I collapsed in the brightly lit atrium just beyond the hospital entrance. A lady in a pink t-shirt scooped me up and whisked me downstairs in a wheelchair while my mum desperately tried to park the car. When the Doctor finally saw me, I’d developed a rash across both my hands and face. The next 48 hours were a blur of needles, x-rays and scans.

It wasn’t meningitis, it was flu compounded by an underlying bacterial infection. The virus had annihilated my white blood cells, so I was kept in isolation for just under a week. IV antibiotics, a few doses of Tamiflu and daily blood tests kept things interesting while I waited to go home.

Almost 7 weeks after being discharged, I’m still not back to full health. While I have good days and bad days, most of the time I feel incredibly weak and exhausted. I tire easily and I can’t manage more than a few hours of work at a time. The Doctor warned me that recovery could take anything up to 8 weeks, so I’m hopeful that I’ll turn a corner soon.

Running my own business while I’ve been so unwell has been a challenge. My clients have been incredibly patient and understanding, but guilt has started to consume me on occasion. To be honest, I feel like I’ve been failing on every front. I just don’t have the energy to be a good wife, a good mother or a good freelancer right now!

I’ve missed blogging more than anything. Love Audrey will be 7 years old on the 26th May, and in all that time I’ve never had to leave the site dormant for so long. The kind, thoughtful comments and tweets I’ve had from loyal readers over the last couple of months have been wonderful. Along with my amazing friends and family, so many of you have kept me going when things have felt far too tough. Thank you.

Let’s hope this is the beginning of getting back to normal.

Love Audrey xxx