The summer before last, I was getting ready to leave my family on holiday in France while I came home to England. My children, who were seven and four, held on to me tightly, looking pale and serious. But they were too frightened to protest, the way they would have done if I’d been leaving them with a babysitter for the evening. We all knew there was something wrong with me, and I was heading off into the unknown.
About eight weeks earlier, my face had become swollen and puffy. Then my neck had followed, and eventually my whole upper body. I looked weird, I felt faint, I could hardly stay awake. I was 39.
