Sunday started with cancelled plans and a body that had clearly had enough.

I was meant to be going out for dinner with friends to celebrate my birthday, which is still ages away anyway, but it felt like something to look forward to. One friend came down with flu and I woke up with a really bad stomach ache, so the plans were cancelled. Disappointing, but also familiar. Health has a way of rearranging your diary without asking.

At first, I thought it might be a bug; my son had one, so that seemed likely. But deep down, I knew there was probably more to it. My body has been reacting badly again, and it is becoming clear that dairy is no longer something I can tolerate.  Whether it was a bug or not, I still couldn't eat and had stomach pain that started on Saturday and was still not gone.

Honestly, though, this isn’t new territory for me.

I have lived with allergies for most of my life. Not mild ones, the complicated kind that affect food, skin and joints. I cannot eat palm tree fruits and vegetables, including avocado and banana, although I occasionally do. I react to birch tree fruits and vegetables. I cannot have tree nuts. I react to foods that cause contact dermatitis, and I was advised years ago to avoid lactose altogether. 

When you list it out, it sounds ridiculous. And sometimes it feels that way too.

I was completely dairy free for around ten years after seeing an allergy specialist. Over time, I slowly introduced dairy back into my diet and for a long while it seemed fine. No obvious reactions, no immediate pain. I convinced myself I could handle it again.

But now my body has very firmly said no.

The stomach aches have been awful, and worse than that, my joints have started flaring. I already have arthritis in two parts of my body, and lately it feels like every time I eat dairy, another joint decides to join in. It is exhausting.

So Sunday became about listening instead of fighting.

Monday morning came early.

Up at the crack of dawn, first things first, record buying. When I hear a tune I love, I have to own it on vinyl. I have been buying records since I was about nine years old and now have well over a thousand twelve inch records. Over the years I have also been given many more by people who no longer wanted them taking up space.

In the early nineties I was a house and early hip hop DJ, mostly friends’ parties, wine bars and small gigs. I loved it. The record bags were unbelievably heavy, decks, mixers, cables, we carried all that around just to listen to music. It sounds mad now, but it was everything back then.

When I got married, I made what is still one of the biggest regrets of my life. I was told there was no room for my Technics decks, mixer and beautiful slip mats from New York, so I sold them. Some of my records were given away too. At the time I listened, newly married and trying to be accommodating. Looking back now, they could easily have gone on the sideboard.

Damage done.

After my divorce and a house move, I was reunited with the records that had sat quietly in a loft for over twenty years. When I moved again, the first thing I bought was a record player. The rest is history. Some parts of you wait patiently until you are ready to come back to them. Now I spend hours uploading my records to my  YouTube and TikTok channels: Charlie's House Tunes.

Today is the second of February.

Originally, today was meant to be my daughter’s first appointment with a surgeon to discuss gallbladder surgery. Then it became surgery day. Then it was cancelled. And now it has somehow become the follow up appointment after surgery. The same date, carrying completely different meanings.

We arrived at the hospital within twenty minutes and somehow got an instant parking space, which honestly felt like a miracle. We made our way to the outpatients annexe, walking through another part of the hospital I have never seen before, long corridors, unfamiliar turns, that strange quiet hum hospitals have.

At one point I went to use the toilet and saw a big red button. I assumed it was the emergency button and stood there thinking I am definitely not pressing that. So I had a moment of confusion wondering how on earth you are meant to turn the light on.

Light bulb moment, the red button was the light.

By then the place absolutely stank. Someone had left the bin open and it reeked of rotten nappies. After I had done my thing, I sprayed the loo with M&S White Cotton perfume, purely out of kindness for the next person.

Public service done.

The good news is my daughter was seen by the surgeon within five minutes of arriving. The doctor examined her scars, brought her scan up on the screen and checked everything carefully before saying she was okay.

That word alone felt like a miracle.

The relief was overwhelming. After months of appointments, changes and anxiety, hearing that made everything else fade into the background. We even managed to stop at M&S on the way home to pick up a fruit jelly, which felt like a tiny celebration.

Honestly, though, I am gutted about the cancelled dinner. And I am also relieved. Because today showed me something important.

I am probably going to be one of those people who looks at a menu and says I cannot have this, or this, or this either. I never wanted to be that person. But if the alternative is pain, joint flares and cancelled plans, I would rather be awkward than unwell.