The bruises came first. They were scattered about the soft skin of my stomach and thighs; my body was a constant galaxy of haemotoma constellations. Sometimes they would worry me, bruises that appeared overnight when I had no memory of any physical trauma. Mostly I ignored them. My clusters of purple stars only bothered me on the grounds of vanity, like when I wanted to wear a short skirt or bare my midriff in a bikini. Some of my boyfriends even liked my bruises, running stray fingers over my black and blue body, asking where they came from and if they hurt. Once I was told they were sexy. Perhaps there’s something charming about being the sort of delicate girl who literally bruises easily.

There were other symptoms too: crippling fatigue, rashes, joint pain, food intolerances, swollen lymph nodes, a constant battle with anaemia no matter how many iron tablets I swallowed or how many rare steaks I ate. Once or twice I’d had memory blackouts—for no apparent reason I didn’t know what happened the night before, and how I’d made it back to my bed. There was that strange case of acute pancreatitis; an inflamed seventy-two hours of sharp, intense pain that my doctor couldn’t explain or understand. My body had given us hints, but symptoms are never symptoms when you’re not looking for a cause.