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No one likes to think of themselves as a host for any one of the number of parasites that plague humans – leeches, nits, worms or even tiny amoeba you can’t see – but recently I found out I’m playing innkeeper to at least two of the nasty blighters.
Several years ago I took an overseas trip with a stopover in Asia. On the way back I skipped the stopover and opted for a gruelling 38-hour door-to-door fligth from London, just to save some precious holiday time. In retrospect this was a mistake; the lack of sleep paired with recycled bacteria on the flight from other people lowered my immune system terribly, and within a week I was feeling the sickest I’d ever felt, unable to do much but groan from the sofa with flu-like symptoms and fever.
My GP thought it was likely I’d been exposed to swine flu on my trip, and told me it wasn’t worth taking Tamiflu now I’d already caught the virus. Miserable and feeling awful, I went home and tried to rest and sleep it off, but nothing seemed to work.
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Now, I’m not one for taking antibiotics unless I really need them, and my diet is pretty good, but after six weeks of feeling like death with little respite (some days were worse than others, but overall I felt the same) I was chronically fatigued and starting to feel desperate.
Back at the GP, I was prescribed one course of antibiotics, then another, as the symptoms only seemed to change for a few days at a time – infection revolving from throat to sinuses to chest – before coming back, terrible as ever. I couldn’t exercise without feeling a wreck, and couldn’t concentrate on work. I was finding it hard to look after myself, let alone my two-year-old daughter. It was clear the drugs weren’t working.