Wheezy come, wheezy go?
I’VE never been one to run to the doctor’s at the first sign of a sneeze. In fact, I could manage for years without going near the place. But now a reluctant trip to the surgery has given me a new lease of life. After years of assuming that the wheezing and coughing that I’ve intermittently experienced was part of the allergies from which I’ve suffered since I was a baby, I was beginning to suspect there was something else going on.
Occasionally, you see, the coughing would result in puffing, and louder wheezing, and a breathing pattern that would run away with itself. If I’d been honest with myself, I’d have realised that these “dos” were triggered, not just by exposure to pollen, but by a range of other things like traffic fumes, wet paint and cigarette smoke.
But a long-standing, if irrational, fear of the doctor’s had helped convince me that, even if I did have the condition I suspected – asthma – then I could look after it myself. Besides, I was doing the NHS a favour by not placing a further burden on its already creaking system. In its 60 years, the guardian of our healthcare has remained largely the pride of the nation, but in many ways it’s been a victim of its own success: more people cured means more people around to need other treatment. In truth, of course, I was being far from altruistic. I’ve inherited my paternal grandmother’s anxiety about doctors. She would probably have removed her own appendix if she’d had to.
Two months ago, matters were taken out of my hands when I had what turned out to be a proper asthma attack in front of assembled loved ones. With witnesses, I knew I could avoid the doctor no longer. Once my appointment was made, I managed to fill in the intervening three hours winding myself up into a panic. What if I was wrong? What if my extensive trawl of the internet had failed to reveal some terrible disease? I could have Blackwater Fever, Ross River virus, or some other dreadful illness.
Of course, I am a typical victim of the information age. Inundated with medical information from television dramas and documentaries, the internet and newspapers, I daren’t even look at health articles in women’s magazines. Because, less than 24 hours after reading the symptom checklists, I’ll have developed four or five of them. This time, despite my legs wanting to walk in another direction, I made it to the surgery.
And there’s really nothing like sitting in front of a doctor to make you face the truth: which was that I struggled so much, and so often, that I automatically avoided spending much time outdoors, taking long walks, or doing anything very active when the pollen count was high or the wind blustery. Without realising it, I was missing out on many of the things I’d previously loved.
After a detailed consultation, measuring my peak flow each day, trials of anti-asthma drugs, and a couple more visits to the doctor, my amateur diagnosis was confirmed: I officially have asthma.
Initially, I felt much better just knowing what was wrong. I did research and became an asthma bore to everyone who made the mistake of asking how I was. Then I had a wobble. I started to worry that I had become one of those characters in Victorian children’s fiction: the invalid weakling cousin forced to spend her days indoors. Of course, this picture is entirely outdated. Modern treatments, many pioneered right here in Derby, mean that most of this country’s eight million sufferers can live almost normal lives. For me, it’s transformed the way I feel, live and act.
Rather than being the one hiding indoors, I’m now the one suggesting meals in the garden, walks to the supermarket, even trips to flower shows. I curse myself for not going to the doctor’s much sooner. Because yes, having asthma is scary. Yes, it can be debilitating. But in all likelihood it can be easily controlled – you just have to respect it and then you can go on living.

July 2007 I'm sure Wagon Wheels are getting smaller .

I'm sure Wagon Wheels are getting smaller ...
SOMETHING’S been bothering me for a while now: whatever happened to white eggs? In any box of six, when I was a little girl, there would be one brown speckled egg and five of the purest white. But it’s not so much the eggs as the question that troubles me. Because I’m asking other questions too, like: “Why don’t they make fizzy Spangles any more?” and: “Are Wagon Wheels getting smaller?”
Worringly, they’re the kind of questions my parents’ generation ask. Does this mean I’m getting old? They say you know you’re getting old when the policemen start looking young, or you “remember when it was all fields around here”. And, while I haven’t yet reached that stage, I know I’m not a young girl any more.
I’m from that generation without a name: the offspring of the War Babies and the Baby Boomers, those who were born before Neil Armstrong set foot on the Moon (albeit, in my case, by only four months). And now I’m wondering: “Are the Lunar Generation turning into their parents?”

Then along comes Life On Mars to make the 1970s cool again. And many elements of 1970s family entertainment are back in fashion. Basil Brush and Bruce Forsyth have made comebacks. And what was Britain’s Got Talent mean to be if not 2007’s Seaside Special? And best of all, Doctor Who, is back in its rightful place on Saturday teatime telly. It’s the same scary family entertainment it always was – only now I watch from in front, rather than behind, the settee.
They say you can tell someone’s age by their favourite Doctor. Well, mine’s David Tennant, although that particular warm fuzzy feeling has nothing to do with nostalgia. Seriously, “my” Doctor was Tom Baker and I think I wanted to be him. For my eighth birthday my best friend’s mum knitted me an enormously long multi-coloured scarf, just like the one he wore. I can remember wrapping it six or seven times around my neck and waiting for it to get cold. Games of Doctor Who were considered more suitable for boys: girls (and yes, I was guilty of participating in this particular playground gender stereotype) were more happy playing Charlie’s Angels because it involved being pretty and swishing our imaginary long hair about. I did, however, own a toy gun: bought for me by my ever-rebellious Nana so I could be Purdy in The New Avengers.
And there I am again: remembering the “good old days”. I try to remind myself that I‘m reasonably “switched on”. I know how to text (admittedly a triumph of determination over manual dexterity); I use online forums; I can operate Sky Plus; and do most of my shopping via the internet. But just as I congratulate myself for establishing my virtual persona in the online world of Second Life, I find myself having to explain the concepts of the test card and wooden escalators to the impossibly young stylist shampooing my hair.
Then again, while it’s shocking to realise that I was at school with girls who have sons older than Giles Barnes, I’m happy I can remember when all yoghurt was Ski; when potatoes came in three varieties (old, new and red); and when olive oil was just for treating ear wax.
If you too are in your mid to late 30s, I’ll bet you agree that it was nice when mums had Tupperware parties and made cheesecake; when the Eurovision Song Contest was about music not politics; and when Brownies wore dresses and bobble hats and three-quarter length socks.
In Derby on a Saturday night, there are youngsters so full of alcohol that they’re incapable even of vouching for their own safety, and I’m glad I’m too old to join in. I yearn for the days when experimenting was limited to adding lime cordial to your lager, or Malibu to your pineapple.
I no longer get irritated by cute children on TV; don’t worry about making an idiot of myself at the panto; and couldn’t care less that I can barely tell my Arctic Monkeys from my Snow Patrol. I’m not embarrassed to tear up at the first sight of a Nativity play; I realise life’s just not fair; and I already know exactly which elements of the 1980s fashion revival are going to cause the most embarrassment in 20 years’ time.
Still, when I listen to my parents reminiscing about Al Read and Ted Ray, my instinct is to push aside my own thoughts of Crackerjack and the Disney films of Jodie Foster. Then I realise that all I’m doing is remembering. It’s nostalgia I feel, not age. I’m not getting old, just older. And that’s just fine.


PUBLISHED IN THE DERBY TELEGRAPH ON THE DATE OF THIS POSTB