THE RONAN KEATING EFFECT: on health, music, poetry and sparkling baked potatoes
Quite a long time ago - depending on how old you are, I suppose - Ronan Keating had a hit single called Rollercoaster.
“Life is a rollercoaster,” he sang, his blue-eyed Irish charm twinkling at me from the television.
I always quite liked Ronan, initially when he was in Boyzone, and later, when he went solo.
In fact, I saw Boyzone live once, in Zurich, in the late 90s, but Ronan was clearly in a filthy mood that night because the whole vibe was off. Maybe he had a tummy ache. It happens to the best of us.
Anyway, I found myself thinking about Ronan Keating this morning. Actually, let me rephrase that.
I found myself thinking about how my life is a rollercoaster, which led my brain to Ronan’s song, which led me to thinking about what a lovely young man he was. It was quite a sweet segue while my eyes were still sticky with sleep-grit, even if the “lovely young man” bit probably makes me sound like an old granny.
Health-wise, my life really is a rollercoaster.
The day before yesterday was horrendous. I spent most of it between the bathroom and my bed, my mood stuck in the fear zone, wondering whether I’d ever have a relatively normal life again.
This illness is so destabilizing. Occasionally, I’ll get a day where it feels like my body is responding to my meds and I might be slowly gaining a little freedom. Like Tuesday, when I went into Girona with my daughter, saw an exhibition, and indulged in a bit of retail therapy.
But then two days later, I’m whacked over the head with a baseball bat and sent scurrying back to play music chairs in the bathroom. And even when the next day isn’t as bad, I’m so flattened by my Big Sicko Day that I become a grumpy zombie.
Today, however, there I was, lying in bed with Ronan on my mind, having slept like a sparkling baked potato. And yes, I know I’m still sick. That’s part of my life now. There’s no cure. There’s only managing the damn thing. Hopefully.
But I think today might be relatively calm on the intestinal front. I’ve already had a swim, videoed myself reading two poems, and I’m feeling quite chirpy.
Maybe my illness is responding to the medication.
Maybe I am pottering out of the woods.
Maybe.
Sometimes, like yesterday, all these maybes do my head in and I spiral deep into a rabbit hole, worrying I’ll never get out again. And then, the next day, I’m relatively normal.
Whatever that means.
I suppose it just means “one day at a time”.
Tomorrow I fly back to Geneva from Barcelona for my immunosuppressant treatment on Tuesday. This time, I’ll be learning how to self-inject subcutaneously, which should give me more freedom.
Maybe.
I’ll return to Spain on Wednesday.
Hopefully.
Meanwhile, here’s a poem from my new collection, Illicit Croissants at Dawn.
The book also has a matching Spotify Playlist, with one track per poem, lovingly selected for maximum mischief.
If you’ve already read Illicit Croissants at Dawn, or my romantic comedy Just Like A Movie, and enjoyed them, I’d be so grateful if you could leave a review. Apparently, when enough people do that, the Amazon algorithm gets excited.
Illicit Croissants At Dawn
Just Like A Movie
You could also just leave a few words in the comments, or share this post with someone who loves books, music, poetry, or sleeping like a sparkling baked potato.
Here’s Let Us Prey, with backing vocals by two squabbling pigeons in the willow tree.