A woman who thought she caught the flu at a gig was left ‘panicking’ to learn she had actually contracted a ‘Victorian disease’ that killed an estimated 10,000 people a year during the 19th century.

Indigo Duffy began developing a sore throat after attending a ‘really hot and packed’ concert in a Brixton pub.

The 22-year-old assumed the symptom was the start of a flu or cold as she had also been to music festival the week before.

She says: ‘I was like a sick Victorian child… I had no clue what it was.’

Then, a few days later when she hopped in the shower, she noticed her legs were covered in angry red welts.

Indigo, a self-employed vintage clothes seller from Kingston, London, went to sleep and woke up the next day with a ‘burning’ rash all over her body.

‘It was really itchy and it also really stung,’ she says. ‘It was a lumpy rash which was awful,’ she says. ‘The more you itched it, it kind of made it worse.’

After Googling her symptoms, she noticed she had the tell-tale small raised bumps on her hand, neck and face associated with scarlet fever, so swiftly made her way over to the A&E department at Kingston Hospital.

There, doctors confirmed Indigo’s suspicion, giving her a week-long course of antibiotics. But it was an diagnosis that left her ‘panicked’ due to its grisly history.

‘I was just thinking of how it was a medieval disease and how it wiped out loads of people back in the day,’ recalls Indigo.

Scarlet fever was the leading cause of death in children in the late 1880s and early 1900s, but declined significantly through the mid-20th century – which is why it is often referred to as a ‘Victorian disease’.

The contagious infection (sometimes called scarlatina) is caused by bacteria called Streptococcus pyogenes, or group A streptococcus (GAS) could prove fatal to a whole family in a matter of weeks, according to the British Medical Journal.

Thankfully, Indigo recovered from the disease, with the rash going away in about three days after she started the antibiotics – which she says ‘felt like waking up on Christmas.’

It wasn’t totally over though, and the condition left her exhausted with lingering skin issues, meaning she had to get moisturiser delivered to her home.

‘I just stayed on my couch the whole week.’ says Indigo. ‘My skin was also really really dry and peeling for probably around two weeks after.’

Now she is sharing her ordeal from late last year to raise awareness of the signs and symptoms of scarlet fever, after particularly virulent strains were detected in the UK this year.

In April, the UK Health Security Agency (UKHSA) reported there had been 12,176 cases of the disease between January and March 2024. UKHSA stated this was higher than average for the last five years, but below the high levels seen during an outbreak in 2023.

Although it’s a contagious infection, the NHS notes scarlet fever mostly affects young children, causing flu-like symptoms and a rash of small raised bumps that starts 12 to 48 hours later and makes skin feel like sandpaper.

Some people also experience a red and swollen tongue with a white coating that peels, leaving it covered in little bumps (called ‘strawberry tongue’) as well as flushed cheeks.

The NHS advises you to see your GP if you or your child have these symptoms and they don’t improve in a week, or straight away if you have chickenpox at the same time, are ill again following scarlet fever, or are feeling unwell after being in contact with someone who has it.

‘Expect the unexpected,’ adds Indigo. ‘You don’t think you’re going to get a Victorian disease.’

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The trend emerged in the ninth annual dating report by Plenty of Fish, which found 42 per cent of single people now combine dates with everyday tasks.

Abbie Elian had been suffering through an exhausting cycle of infections, pain and fatigue for five months when nurses suggested her IUD could be the cause.

She’d had the contraceptive device — often referred to as a coil — inserted for six years and, while she’d struggled with hormonal imbalances and heavy cycles, the multiple UTIs, yeast infections, sharp pelvic cramps and even kidney stones, were all new.

The decision was made to remove it, but doctors were stunned by the ‘horrifying’ hairball that came out attached to the device, almost half its size.

‘When the doctor took it out, they called it a hairball. I didn’t touch it. We don’t think it’s just hair. We think it’s probably tampon fragments, maybe toilet paper fragments, my hair from my head,’ Abbie, 29, from San Diego, California, says.

She’d done over 20 Telehealth visits (online appointments in the US), where she was prescribed antibiotics, but couldn’t get an in-person appointment until four months after her symptoms began.

When she finally attended an in-person gynaecology appointment, the healthcare professional said the issue wasn’t related to the contraceptive device.

The doctor said: ‘You don’t need the IUD out unless you’re trying to conceive.’

Abbie felt her discomfort wasn’t addressed at the appointment, and she was instead told to have an ultrasound. ‘The pain I was experiencing felt like a stabbing pain in my lower pelvis region and got worse depending on hormonal factors and activities,’ she adds.

‘When I saw it, I completely froze’

With no abnormalities on her ultrasound, Abbie made the decision to have her IUD removed two weeks later, after ending up in hospital for kidney stones.

When she saw the hairball attached to the device as it was removed, she was ‘horrified’.

‘When they took it out and I saw it, I completely froze,’ she says. ‘I was so in shock and trying to piece together what the ball was and how it could’ve gotten there.

‘As strange as it sounds, I was relieved when I saw the hairball because it validated my instinct that something was wrong and I could finally begin feeling normal again.’

Her fiancé compared the hairball to seeing a ‘gerbil’ removed from his partner, in good humour, but at the time Abbie felt extremely self-conscious.

‘My partner saw it coming out of me. I was mortified,’ she adds. Although her partner reassured her he never felt put off by it.

She wasn’t left with many answers from doctors, though, but they’ve theorised that her IUD strings may have been too long and picked up the debris.

‘A very traumatising experience’

For Abbie, this ‘traumatising’ experience has meant she struggled with intimacy in the months after.

‘If I’m being completely vulnerable, I felt so out of touch with my body,’ she says. ‘A part of me that’s supposed to bring me pleasure and connection brought me confusion, embarrassment, and pain.

‘It took me months to even be willing to try anything and when I did, it often resulted in me breaking down crying.

‘I already have plenty of insecurities and issues with my own body. This was just the icing on the cake and made nothing easier.’

She believes she wouldn’t have gotten through any of her ordeal without her partner.

‘I can’t stress enough how much the partner you choose in your life matters,’ Abbie adds. ‘I wouldn’t have had the courage to go to those appointments or the emergency room without him. We are here to support and encourage one another without judgement or embarrassment.’

She still experiences some hormonal pain but, since having the hairball removed, she feels like ‘a different person’.

TikToker Abbie took a break from birth control for eight months after having the IUD taken out, and has realised that, while it works for many women, hormonal birth control isn’t something she wants to start using again.

‘I’ve decided birth control doesn’t sit well with my body and I’m grateful to have a partner that is incredibly supportive and actually talked me out of being on it all together,’ she explains. ‘I’ve started cycle tracking, and we both want to allow my body to heal.’

After sharing her story on TikTok and hitting nearly eight million views, Abbie wants to normalise sharing experiences of womanhood, no matter how vulnerable they may make us feel.

‘I’m determined to make my socials a safe space for women to feel comfortable being vulnerable about their experiences,’ she adds. ‘I’m normalising sharing what others may keep to themselves – relationships, hairballs, and everything in-between.

‘My goal isn’t to scare anyone out of these decisions, what my experience was isn’t bound to be yours. My goal is to just spread awareness.’

‘Why me?’ That was my first thought when I received the news that I’d tested positive for Hepatitis C.

I’d vaguely heard of it, knew it was a virus that affects the liver, is spread through blood-to-blood contact and that, if left untreated, it could be life-threatening. 

However, doctors reassured me that there was hope: it was traceable, treatable, and curable.

With their help, I have had successful treatment, but it has been a long journey full of setbacks and soul-searching. 

When I first moved to London, I discovered how dazzling and joyful the LGBTQ+ community could be – being in the heart of culture and inspiration it felt like anything could happen, which is why I never said no to an all night party at a club or flat share. I wanted to be amongst the celebrations.

For many of us, however, there remained a dark side.

Being queer in a new city means that some people feel they have to bluff their way into circles of hedonism because they finally feel free – at least that was my experience.

In the same breath as reminding my friends to hold onto their phones and bags, I’d put myself in precarious situations by partying or often going to extreme lengths to ensure the ‘fun’ never stopped.

Nights that began with a few drinks often spiralled into sunrise, shots, and the hunt for the next party, which is how, one night, I ended up in the company of someone I wish I could forget.

My memory of that night is fractured, but I know that what happened wasn’t consensual. And when I woke up I knew something was wrong. I felt used, dirty, like something inside me had changed.

For a while, a part of me wanted to bury what had happened, to forget the night and pretend like everything was OK. But a louder part kept saying I had to take care of myself. 

I started going to therapy which became my safe space until, eventually, I was finally able to say the hardest words out loud: I’d been abused.

Being able to admit this allowed me to strip the shame away. It also reminded me that I had to look out for myself and that honesty led me to the clinic.

I often tested with Sexual Health London (SHL) – a free and discreet online service for Londoners who would like to get themselves checked – as a precaution, but this time I had cause to be nervous. 

My stomach dropped when my results came back and revealed that I was clear of everything except Hepatitis C.

Though I’d had an STI before I’d mostly always had a clean bill of health. To now contract a virus that is actually very rare to get through unprotected sex, was surreal and I felt so ashamed. The doctors were sure the incident of abuse was when transmission had occurred.

After being referred to the hospital for blood tests, I was told that, fortunately, it had been caught extremely early and with treatment it would only take a short course of medication to get back to good health. 

Even as recently as the late 2000s, treatment could take a year, involve painful injections, and leave people debilitated. But, thanks to a breakthrough in modern medicine in 2014, there is now a 95% success rate of being cured of Hepatitis C in three months with tablets.

For several weeks taking my tablets became a ritual of reclamation. Each pill reminded me I was choosing myself, building a stronger sense of responsibility and self-love. I also felt a responsibility to protect the community I love, too.

Friends were proud that I was taking care of myself and I reveled in the fact that every time I took my medication it felt like a victory over my abuser.

And when I heard the words ‘you’re cured’ two months later, I felt relief like I never had before.

I had faced this head on: I’d beaten the shame, I hadn’t stayed silent and because of that I was standing taller and prouder.

Of course, successful treatment does not mean I am protected another Hepatitis C infection – I still need to protect myself as I would from any other sexually transmitted infection – but today, I’m healthy and I rarely feel the need to speak about this chapter of my life.

However, when I was invited to guest-curate Art on a Postcard’s Winter Auction in aid of The Hepatitis C Trust (whose mission is to eradicate the virus by 2030) I knew it was time to share my story again.

I’m proud to be part of an auction that features incredible artists such as Sarah Maple and Sunil Gupta and is raising money for such a worthwhile cause, especially as the timing couldn’t be more important.

The UK has the chance to eliminate this virus in the next five years: England has already met the WHO target for blood safety and the number of people living with chronic Hepatitis C in the country has fallen dramatically since 2015. 

But every person that gets tested brings us closer to eradicating the disease entirely.

If nothing else, I want my story to be a reminder that there is no shame in getting tested, no matter what traumatic experiences may have led you to that point, and that it is actually an act of self-love.

So, be safe. Be responsible. And get tested.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing James.Besanvalle@metro.co.uk. 

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