You might have noticed from the last post that I had started to begin feeling ill. Ian had already had a cold when he got on in the plane in London, but seemed to recover relatively quickly. I, on the other hand, started off feeling tired, which I put down to jet lag, and with a bit of a cough.
Over the next week it all became decidedly worse. By the time we reached our hostel in Rotorua, the cough had gone from tickly to ridiculously chesty and keeping us both awake at night. That accompanied with constant cramping in my legs whenever I tried to walk, I figured I was going to get a bad case of the flu.
I managed to resist going to a Doctor until we reached Christchurch. Thankfully they have one of those (somewhat expensive) 24/7 surgeries attached to a hospital. After an hour and a half wait (which by UK standards is basically a blink of the eye) I got to see the lovely Dr Eve Chakraborti who told me three very very alarming things.
- I had pneumonia! Ouch. Possibly with a touch of pleurisy…
- If the antibiotics she gave me didn’t work, she would end up admitting me to hospital to stick me on an IV.
- Oh and that she used to live on Camden Road in Tunbridge Wells!
What are the chances?! You make the effort to travel across the other side of the world and you end up meeting someone who lived a road away from you!
After dosing up, and having a whole days bed rest (thanks Dr Ian) we carried on our journey, hoping that the antibiotics would kick in.
But when you find yourself faced with the option of going into hospital when you’re supposed to be leaving the country the next day, or taking another set of antibiotics and hiding your couch enough to hope that the lovely staff and Qantas will let you on a plane, what do you do? More tablets obviously! Thankfully the second course did the job and I felt much better by Christmas Day.
Hopefully that should explain the complete lack of blog posts up to now