Story and Photograph By Susan Merrell

I live with a modern, male version of Typhoid Mary.

What’s more, it’s not only one disease that’s his problem – bugs are attracted to him like moths to a flame.  For instance, how and where had he caught the virus that had his temperature soaring while producing no other symptoms?  The doctor was flummoxed.  Being a suburban accountant the odds of picking up exotic diseases are negligible?  All was revealed during a documentary that my son was watching.  His father had Q Fever – a virus usually lurking at abattoirs. His father had visited one in a professional capacity to value the business for legal proceedings.  It was the first and only time he had visited an abattoir, but Q Fever had found him nevertheless.

Luckily he has the capacity for a quick recovery, a bit like Typhoid Mary who was a carrier but totally asymptomatic, the diseases rarely lay him too low.  However, the people with whom he shares his ailments are often not so lucky.

Having lived with this man now nigh on 25 years, I know his legendary power to infect all those who share intimacy with him – mostly me.  Quarantining has proved successful.  Just one sneeze and he’s banished to the spare bedroom.

Sometimes this is not possible, like when away on holidays.  Our last European trip was during the SARS epidemic.  Yep, he got it – and he passed it on.  In case you’re wondering, we both survived.  I told him there was every chance he wouldn’t survive the next disease he passed onto me.

Hindsight has proved this to be an idle threat because I’m just recovered from a nasty bout of flu, passed onto me by my loved one.  This hasn’t cost him his life – but it’s cost him.

It’s cost him the price of five days in a health retreat for me, for some rest and recuperation. There is absolutely no truth to the rumour that the visit was because of a need for weight loss. But, then again, there was no harm in killing two birds with one stone, was there?

So, no alcohol, no caffeine no fatty foods for five whole days – sounds like hell doesn’t it?  It was anything but.

It started with the overwhelming sense of tranquillity as I walked through the 12-foot-high front doors of this Hunter Valley retreat (NSW) into the two-storey foyer.  It was a portent of things to come.

It’s so luxurious: the private suites are spacious with spectacular views over the Hunter Valley and it’s grapevines (irony not lost), and bathrooms to die for.  In the evenings, when you’re at dinner, someone comes to turn down your bed and lights an oil burner with scented oils.

Just when you think it doesn’t get much better, there’s the spa where ‘treatments’ such as massages and facials are offered. Then there’s the food.  It’s so good that you’d never know it was of the healthy variety.  In my opinion it’s the best in the Valley even though the Hunter is renowned for its food and wine.

But it’s not all beer and skittles, so to speak.  This is a health retreat and throughout the day (non compulsory) activities are offered hourly from 6.30 in the morning until around 5 p.m.  For those who feel energetic and want to get fit or lose weight there are the strenuous kind, for the others there are more gentle pursuits – one day an hour of ‘boot camp’ was offered for instance with an alternative of ‘smile meditation.

Not being a wuss, I always picked the strenuous option.  It was confronting.  Believing myself to be pretty fit, I nonetheless found that in boxing, circuit training, walking, boot camp, spin class, tennis, volleyball et al, I was always the weakest link.

On the regular 4.5 kilometre morning walk, the only way I could keep up with the pack was to run like the clappers down the hills to give myself a head start for when everyone caught up with me on the flat or on the uphill miles.

Kangaroos grazing on the golf course would look at me quizzically as if to say, “why isn’t she with the others?” One morning I almost ran straight into one coming the other way.  We stopped and stared at each other both wondering who would blink first.  I did.  Those kangaroos are HUGE.

Then there was the 10 kilometre hike that was not half as strenuous for me as for our guide who walked with the fast walkers at first (read: everyone but me) and then had to wait for me to make sure I hadn’t got lost only then to have to run, again like the clappers, to catch up with the others.  He did this several times, not once complaining – bless him.

Being the weakest link at boot camp was a big disadvantage: We were given the job of getting out some ping-pong balls from the bottom of a six-foot tube without tilting the tube.  We were competing against another team.  The only way to do so was to float the balls to the top.  Water and buckets were provided at the other end of the field, so running was involved.  As the slowest runner, ( I hated just admitting that!) my task was to hold the tube upright.

But these people are dastardly.  After a few bucketfuls, the tube sprang a leak, then another one.  Yep, they’d drilled holes all the way up.  As the tube holder, I needed to stem the leaks.  My fingers stretched to 3 holes then I needed to deploy my tongue.  This involved turning my head to the side.  Due to the inaccuracy and haste of the runners more water was poured into my ear than into the tube.  I couldn’t protest – my tongue was otherwise occupied.

The situation worsened when others needed to be deployed to stem the leaks further up the tubes.  It was a hilarious.  While I’d like to say we won, we never.  Should I have opted for smile meditation? Well, no one ever lost weight practicing smile meditation, did they?

Just as the ignominy of always being the weakest link threatened to overwhelm me and put me off my dinner (I made that last bit up) I had a ‘light bulb’ moment.  It had taken me four days to realise that while I was beating myself up for being useless, the other useless ones were at stretch class.

They’d been engaged in deep-water running while I was pounding the pavements and walking up hills so steep that noses almost touched the tarmac. And moreover, most of the people indulging in the strenuous activities were younger than me, sometimes a lot younger.  That’s my excuse – it works for me.

I loved my five days at the fat farm.  The most enjoyable aspect was the complete absence of responsibility.  The worst was having to confront my own physical inadequacies and to realise an Olympic Medal is never going to be – but I reckon I could have outstared that kangaroo if my courage hadn’t failed me. Next time.