I’ve started making an involuntary “Aaaah” noise every time I sit down. It’s part-stiffness and part-relief that my backside is about to make contact with a cushioned surface. It’s the kind of noise I would make while acting the part of someone at least thirty years older than me, in a theatre workshop.
Every time I make the noise, I have strong words with myself and vow it won’t happen again. But the next time I sit down it comes out of me with no warning. It’s as if my whole body has decided that this is now the noise I make whenever I plonk myself onto the sofa. I can’t pinpoint the exact time it started, but it’s recent, I know that much.
I assumed it was just part of getting older, everything is stiff. First thing in the morning I hobble down the stairs holding onto the banister. It takes me an hour or so and two strong coffees to get going. Recently, however, I had a phone appointment with a cardiologist, who told me I was thirty years younger than all his other patients.
That got me thinking about just how many new health problems I seem to have had in the last three years, compared to previously. I exercise every day, eat healthily, sleep well – so what’s changed? (I’m aware, now, that the answer is glaringly obvious.)
J’s death coincided with the onset of peri-menopause. The forgetfulness and absent-mindedness arrived instantly after he died. It quickly became a running joke – the entire family was at risk of falling apart, as I could no longer remember which parts of which school uniform were at which house. My brain was otherwise engaged: in keeping me upright and putting one foot in front of the other.
Because of how he died, J’s funeral was delayed for a month. I sleep-walked through it and managed to read out the eulogy I’d written. Then in the night, I had an attack of vertigo. From my journal:
I got vertigo in my sleep last night, the whole room tipped over. When I woke up, I had to sit on the side of the bed to tip it back again. I feel like I’m still walking on a boat, I feel hungover, my head hurts. Yesterday feels like weeks ago, but the sadness feels more real than ever.”
Two months after he died, I sprained my back doing nothing in particular. I had to wear a velcro brace, use heat packs for a few weeks and go to physio.
I’ve strained by back. Moving around is just about OK, I can walk and thank god I can sleep. But trying to get up from sitting is excruciating and bending down the same. So, I’m mainly sitting in front of the TV and drinking cups of tea. I think my body might be trying to tell me something.
Five months after he died, I got my first notification from my watch that I’d had an irregular heart rhythm during the night. Initially I brushed it off, but I later upgraded to a new watch. I continued to get the notifications so I took it more seriously and went to the GP.
They have now officially diagnosed me with an Atrial Fibrillation. So I am waiting for an appointment to have an ablation. Don’t look it up, even thinking about it makes me nauseous.
A year and a half after he died, I got Covid. This one is likely completely unrelated to his death or the peri-menopause, but it’s significant simply because it was the first time. I had thought I was one of those special immune people. I bragged how both boys had had it multiple times during the pandemic, but I’d never caught it.
When we had to do a drive-through PCR test for Dylan, he couldn’t do the swab by himself so I helped him and he sneezed all over me. And I mean all over my face. Nathan slept in with me when he had a high temperature, sobbing in my arms because he felt so poorly. And I continued to test negative.
Nearly two years after J died, a frozen shoulder joined the party. The pain was agonising and lasted for over a year. It appeared for no reason at all, and worsened gradually until I was completely incapacitated and went back to the physio, in tears. I’m only just starting to build my strength back up.
As well as making the “Aaaah” noise when sitting down (or getting up, for that matter), I now totally get why people of a certain age drone on about their ailments. There are just so many of them! Keeping on top of them all is time consuming, so it’s only fair that we should share the intricate details with our nearest and dearest. But at fifty-two, it does seem a bit early for me to have become like this. I thought all these issues were just, you know, ‘menopause stuff.’ But when the cardiologist confirmed there was no link with Atrial Fibrillation and HRT or the menopause, finally the penny dropped. I can’t believe I’ve waited three years to Google it.
Hey, Doctor Google, can bereavement cause Atrial Fibrillation?
“Yes, studies suggest that bereavement, especially the loss of a partner, can be associated with an increased risk of developing atrial fibrillation (AFib). The risk is particularly elevated in individuals under 60, and it may be higher when the loss is unexpected.”
Particularly elevated if you’re under 60 and the loss is unexpected?! Oh, OK. Er… what about a frozen shoulder?
“Yes, a frozen shoulder can sometimes develop following a bereavement event. Bereavement, as a significant stressful life change, can contribute to the development of frozen shoulder due to increased stress hormones like cortisol and potential hormonal shifts.”
Vertigo?
“Yes, vertigo can be a physical manifestation of grief or bereavement. While it’s not directly caused by the bereavement itself, the emotional and physical stress associated with grief can trigger or worsen vertigo symptoms. Bereavement can lead to increased stress, anxiety, and even panic attacks, all of which can affect the autonomic nervous system and potentially cause dizziness or vertigo.”
And let me guess, back pain too?
“Yes, a strained back can be a symptom of grief, especially if the loss is traumatic. Grief can lead to physical symptoms like muscle tension, headaches, and body aches, including back pain.”
Yes, yes and again yes. Why have I only just joined the dots? Don’t get me wrong, I have no doubt that going through the menopause at the same time as a traumatic bereavement has also contributed. It would be impossible to definitively separate out which caused what symptom. But one thing is clear – it has (yet again) reminded me how much I continue to underestimate the potency of grief, and the far-reaching complexity of its effects.
Sneaky little grief, you got me again.
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