I must admit that I had intermittent suspicions of doom throughout my stay in hospital. But each time I looked at myself, with no outward signs of the disease, I felt reassured. Vomiting side, I felt good most of the time. I could not notice the physical changes, because I saw myself every day. My weight dropped to around 62 kg, and my face became drawn, but I was none the wiser.
Later, I got quite a shock to realise that I could encircle my upper thigh with outstretched hands, and the fingers and thumbs would touch. Holding my hands up to the light, away from my legs, made me recognise the loss. But this was in the future. At the time I am describing, I thought I looked pretty good.
I had asked for the services of a physiotherapist to attempt to regain some muscular condition which was lost during days of inactivity spent in my isolated room. I was still thinking in terms of one or two matches being lost from my cricket season, but no disruption to my commitments with the first eighteen football side in the winter.
She gave me weights suitable for repetitive exercises in bed, designed to strengthen my leg and arm muscles. They were old, but effective.
"Strap the weight around your ankle like this," I watched keenly. "Keep your leg straight, and raise it to about here." It felt easy at the first attempt.
I enjoyed a relaxed discussion about muscle strength with the expert, and then after about half an hour, promised that her carefully designed exercise program would be followed to the letter.
Satisfied, she left.
As would be expected, I began this routine with great enthusiasm only to succumb to lethargy as the days went by. She would only return once to check my progress.
I later experimented with isometric exercises, like pressing knuckles against the bed support or the walls. They were easy, and seemed effective.
faffajane
Pro 
Hugs x