Hello?
Sorry, it's me here...
Yes I know it's been over two years but there are reasons. Maybe not good ones, but reasons nonetheless.
But I'm back, so where were we? Oh yes - trying to create a New Life!
So - how's that working for me?
Pretty good, as it turns out. To be fair, it still looks just like the old life - still ill (thank the peri-menopause for knocking me back five years in my recovery) but, oh, the light at the end of the tunnel is beaming down in all its radiant fullness and I am beaming back.
For instance, I sold four paintings in the summer - big, expensive ones at that - AND got a commission. All in the space of four weeks. Made well over a grand. Yay!
Now I'm not a simpleton - I know that £1200 for two or three months work is pretty pants by today's standards, BUT it is tangible proof that my paintings have value to total strangers - and these people are even willing to part with large sums of dosh to acquire them.
This is validating, edifying, and encouraging to me, and we can all do with a bit of that sometimes.
My lovely hubby Steve finally has a job, which also means that the financial dung heap we were living in is now merely a 'learning experience' fading into memory.
And please don't think me callous but my son has left home, and this has brought about the biggest positive change of all.
Allow me to explain - I ran away from home at 18 going on 12, to escape the life dictated by my parents with many threats and far too little bribery, and eloped to London with a boyfriend, a suitcase and two pounds in my pocket. Seven years later, I managed to get away from the surprisingly abusive and domineering boyfriend, but by then I was a single parent.
Fast-forward to last summer and I'm helping Sam to pack for Uni in Bournemouth. I'm tearful for me and excited for him - thrilled about the opportunities and challenges he is going to face, and wondering how much of a gap his beautiful, sunny energy is going to leave at home.
For the first time, it is just me and his father. Alone. Together. A couple. In the same house, but not as parents anymore.
We seem to have done it backwards because now we are finally having 'our time'.
I am a little scared.
Then Steve's new job takes him away for a few nights at a time, so I am truly alone for the first time in my whole life. I've been alone before, but only as an interlude, a small interruption of my wifely/motherly routine.
This is different.This life stretches out before me as a blank canvas beckoning. There are no calls upon me - I can fill the time entirely as I wish, so I use it to begin discovering myself anew.
It is heady and glorious. I revel in it. I am sickeningly lazy, followed by bursts of ridiculous activity at unaccountable hours of the day and night. I sing Karaoke until two in the morning. I lay in the bath until noon. I eat nothing but battered onion rings for lunch. I drink a whole bottle of Mojitos. I enjoy being me.
I notice that my life suddenly IS new - unprecedented, unexplainable, unexpected.
My husband and I find a new contentment and calm between us. We laugh a lot more. We have far fewer worries. It feels like none at all.
I am fifty-two. It took this long.
Louise Bourgeois said "I have been to hell and back , and let me tell you - it was wonderful"
I know what she means. My 'hell' has made this all the sweeter.
I am still ill. My feet twinge with pain at every step. But I dance on them anyway.
Monday, 2 January 2012
Thursday, 2 September 2010
Kids v teachers - we know who wins!
Day 360
It was book group last week and we did The Wasp Factory by Iain Banks. As an example of how childhood isn't that innocent, and children are not always sweetness and light, it was very successful. The main character had already killed three members of his own family before even becoming a snotty teenager, and describes it as a phase he was going through. Nice.
Got me thinking about my own adolescence though.
I suddenly remembered the thrill of power and pride that had spread though our class, when we heard our English teacher had suffered a nervous breakdown. We were convinced we had driven him to it and shamelessly gloried in it.
Steve said the same had happened at his school so we weren't unique in our callousness by any means. To have an effect on the outside world - on the adult world - was something we all aspired to and bragged about.
"We made Miss shout/throw the board rubber at Sid/storm out the room/cry" meant you weren't at the bottom of the food chain any more, and there is nothing more enticing to any child than having power over an adult.
I personally couldn't get away with it with my parents - they were just too terrifying - but teachers were fair game. And dinner ladies. And the driver of the school bus if it was Ken (but not if it was Herbie c'os he was nice).
So when Penny had a crush on the maths teacher and just leaned back in her chair, glowing at him lasciviously, and the poor man had to hide in the stationery cupboard until he'd got himself together, we thought that was wicked.
And there was one lad who had a set of skeleton keys he had made that opened every door in the school. He was our hero. A total God of cool.
And when a sneakily made audio tape circulated around the school, of Miss Threapleton (the strict and unpopular classics teacher and head of the girls boarding house) and the new sports master in bed together, our glee was unparalleled.
God, we were horrible.
In my defence, can I just say that I do still feel guilt and remorse over one incident.
On a school walking trip, me and Alison Neate (the class gorgeous girl), were hanging back and waiting for a chance to nip behind a tree for a wee. Up came Dr Skinner, IQ of gazillions and therefore, not very cool but really making an effort.
He kept talking to us, very pleasantly, as we meandered along, but showed absolutely no signs of leaving us and catching up with the others no matter how slowly we went.
Eventually, my walk had turned into a closed legged sort of waddle, and I whispered to Alison "this is getting worse and worse".
Not quietly enough.
Dr Skinner went bright red, muttered something about needing to join the others, and sped off leaving us in fits of embarrassed laughter, whereupon I pee'd myself anyway.
For six years - let me repeat that, six years! - I tried to pluck up the courage to apologise to the man. Never did. Still feel dreadful about it because it was accidental.
Had we intended to insult him, however, we would have been triumphant. Therein lies the difference.
So - childhood - not so innocent. Come to think of it, the only innocence I remember was a complete lack of comprehension about the consequences of my actions and the limitless ability to revel in the misfortunes of others.
Still, we can't get away with that as adults, so enjoy it while you can, kids.
Unless you want to be a sociopath and end up in a book by Iain Banks, of course.
It was book group last week and we did The Wasp Factory by Iain Banks. As an example of how childhood isn't that innocent, and children are not always sweetness and light, it was very successful. The main character had already killed three members of his own family before even becoming a snotty teenager, and describes it as a phase he was going through. Nice.
Got me thinking about my own adolescence though.
I suddenly remembered the thrill of power and pride that had spread though our class, when we heard our English teacher had suffered a nervous breakdown. We were convinced we had driven him to it and shamelessly gloried in it.
Steve said the same had happened at his school so we weren't unique in our callousness by any means. To have an effect on the outside world - on the adult world - was something we all aspired to and bragged about.
"We made Miss shout/throw the board rubber at Sid/storm out the room/cry" meant you weren't at the bottom of the food chain any more, and there is nothing more enticing to any child than having power over an adult.
I personally couldn't get away with it with my parents - they were just too terrifying - but teachers were fair game. And dinner ladies. And the driver of the school bus if it was Ken (but not if it was Herbie c'os he was nice).
So when Penny had a crush on the maths teacher and just leaned back in her chair, glowing at him lasciviously, and the poor man had to hide in the stationery cupboard until he'd got himself together, we thought that was wicked.
And there was one lad who had a set of skeleton keys he had made that opened every door in the school. He was our hero. A total God of cool.
And when a sneakily made audio tape circulated around the school, of Miss Threapleton (the strict and unpopular classics teacher and head of the girls boarding house) and the new sports master in bed together, our glee was unparalleled.
God, we were horrible.
In my defence, can I just say that I do still feel guilt and remorse over one incident.
On a school walking trip, me and Alison Neate (the class gorgeous girl), were hanging back and waiting for a chance to nip behind a tree for a wee. Up came Dr Skinner, IQ of gazillions and therefore, not very cool but really making an effort.
He kept talking to us, very pleasantly, as we meandered along, but showed absolutely no signs of leaving us and catching up with the others no matter how slowly we went.
Eventually, my walk had turned into a closed legged sort of waddle, and I whispered to Alison "this is getting worse and worse".
Not quietly enough.
Dr Skinner went bright red, muttered something about needing to join the others, and sped off leaving us in fits of embarrassed laughter, whereupon I pee'd myself anyway.
For six years - let me repeat that, six years! - I tried to pluck up the courage to apologise to the man. Never did. Still feel dreadful about it because it was accidental.
Had we intended to insult him, however, we would have been triumphant. Therein lies the difference.
So - childhood - not so innocent. Come to think of it, the only innocence I remember was a complete lack of comprehension about the consequences of my actions and the limitless ability to revel in the misfortunes of others.
Still, we can't get away with that as adults, so enjoy it while you can, kids.
Unless you want to be a sociopath and end up in a book by Iain Banks, of course.
Tuesday, 24 August 2010
Bye bye Roger, hello E.T.
Day 351
A word about guinea pigs.
Dearest Roger has died. I knew he was ill (just like Spike Milligan) but the vet said he wasn't.
But he was. Died in my arms on Thursday morning.
Farewell you sweet natured, soft furred, handsome fellow.
Sandra and Barry, the girls he has left behind, are coping - for which fact I am very grateful. We only got Roger in the first place because bitchy old Barry was constantly picking on poor little Sandra. Get a neutered male, we were told, so we did and they all turned into one great, big, peaceful, lovely family of oinks. So have been on the lookout for a return to the snotty behaviour from Baz but it seems ok for now.
Old friend Janine came for the weekend. She is funny and beautiful and interested in the same things as me, which is a treat when you live with all blokes for too long.
She brought with her my birthday present - a large, mummy-sized money box and a smaller set of salt and pepper pots ALL IN THE SHAPE OF GUINEA PIGS!!!!!!!!!!
They are sitting on top of the cage and looking too life-like for comfort sometimes. I have named them Mandy, Dick and Phil, respectively. I don't normally name inanimate objects - I have never named my car, for instance - but they make the loss of Roger a little easier as it feels like I have just got three more (and they don't poo or eat, which makes life cheaper). Yay. (Thanks Janine, you always know the right thing.)
Except even she could not solve the 'mystery of the stained hand'. Sounds good that - the 'mystery of the stained hand' (pause for blood-curdling laugh and spooky noises).
Quite simply, I went to bed, slept, woke up and went to the loo, then went back to bed with a book (one of the shopaholic books, so I couldn't put it down). Then the phone rang so I answered it from the extension in Sam's room as it's closest (he wasn't home). Sat on the end of his bed chatting to Janine about what train she was arriving on and what we were going to do when she got here, and then I looked down at my hand.
It was covered in a rust coloured stain over half the palm and most of the fingers.
And it wouldn't wash off.
In fact it took two and a half days and a lot of scrubbing to clear it.
And I have absolutely no idea how it got there.
I don't smoke so it wasn't a weird, massive nicotine stain.
I'm not American so I don't use iodine when I cut myself (I'm British - I just run it under a tap or suck it or, if something's hanging off by a thread of sinew, I slap on a bit of Germolene).
I hadn't picked up some large, rusty object whilst fast asleep in bed, and even if I had, it ought to have washed off, which it didn't.
I don't think it was a stigmata, but if it was, then it was wasted on me.
And it wasn't blood or paint.
So that just leaves alien encounters in my sleep. Newsflash. Aliens now kidnap us in order to badly henna our fingers instead of conducting mad experiments involving drills and such.
Perhaps there is a new strain of young aliens who spend their gap years in India, before settling down to the proper task of abducting humans.
So if you wake up in the morning with a hankering for the remains of last night's curry for breakfast, it may well be less to do with your hangover and more to do with recently ashrammed aliens with no artistic ability.
You have been warned.
A word about guinea pigs.
Dearest Roger has died. I knew he was ill (just like Spike Milligan) but the vet said he wasn't.
But he was. Died in my arms on Thursday morning.
Farewell you sweet natured, soft furred, handsome fellow.
Sandra and Barry, the girls he has left behind, are coping - for which fact I am very grateful. We only got Roger in the first place because bitchy old Barry was constantly picking on poor little Sandra. Get a neutered male, we were told, so we did and they all turned into one great, big, peaceful, lovely family of oinks. So have been on the lookout for a return to the snotty behaviour from Baz but it seems ok for now.
Old friend Janine came for the weekend. She is funny and beautiful and interested in the same things as me, which is a treat when you live with all blokes for too long.
She brought with her my birthday present - a large, mummy-sized money box and a smaller set of salt and pepper pots ALL IN THE SHAPE OF GUINEA PIGS!!!!!!!!!!
They are sitting on top of the cage and looking too life-like for comfort sometimes. I have named them Mandy, Dick and Phil, respectively. I don't normally name inanimate objects - I have never named my car, for instance - but they make the loss of Roger a little easier as it feels like I have just got three more (and they don't poo or eat, which makes life cheaper). Yay. (Thanks Janine, you always know the right thing.)
Except even she could not solve the 'mystery of the stained hand'. Sounds good that - the 'mystery of the stained hand' (pause for blood-curdling laugh and spooky noises).
Quite simply, I went to bed, slept, woke up and went to the loo, then went back to bed with a book (one of the shopaholic books, so I couldn't put it down). Then the phone rang so I answered it from the extension in Sam's room as it's closest (he wasn't home). Sat on the end of his bed chatting to Janine about what train she was arriving on and what we were going to do when she got here, and then I looked down at my hand.
It was covered in a rust coloured stain over half the palm and most of the fingers.
And it wouldn't wash off.
In fact it took two and a half days and a lot of scrubbing to clear it.
And I have absolutely no idea how it got there.
I don't smoke so it wasn't a weird, massive nicotine stain.
I'm not American so I don't use iodine when I cut myself (I'm British - I just run it under a tap or suck it or, if something's hanging off by a thread of sinew, I slap on a bit of Germolene).
I hadn't picked up some large, rusty object whilst fast asleep in bed, and even if I had, it ought to have washed off, which it didn't.
I don't think it was a stigmata, but if it was, then it was wasted on me.
And it wasn't blood or paint.
So that just leaves alien encounters in my sleep. Newsflash. Aliens now kidnap us in order to badly henna our fingers instead of conducting mad experiments involving drills and such.
Perhaps there is a new strain of young aliens who spend their gap years in India, before settling down to the proper task of abducting humans.
So if you wake up in the morning with a hankering for the remains of last night's curry for breakfast, it may well be less to do with your hangover and more to do with recently ashrammed aliens with no artistic ability.
You have been warned.
Sunday, 8 August 2010
"Rosebud..." (said in the voice of Orson Wells)
Day 336
Squeezing out a blob of pink toothpaste and it forming a perfect, five-petalled rosebud on one's brush is a good start to the day, I find. It's a Zen thing, isn't it, to be able to find a moment of peace and beauty that grounds us in the here and now? Or is it only Zen if you can make it last longer than the time it takes to clean your teeth? Which I can't really. So possibly not that Zen.
Had a visit from our landlords this week. They are lovely people and it is always nice to see them, but so much nicer when you know you can afford the rent, which, temporarily, we can't, so Steve was quite anxious. I, however, live in an unreality bubble where showing them their newly laid patio, decorated bathroom, and beautifully made roman blind were all much more important to me, so I was quite excited.
My bubble won the day. They paid for the lino and the blind, and said to just keep them informed of what we can afford and when we can pay it, and left with a list of other things to get sorted for us on our behalf. How many landlords hear you tell them you don't know how much rent the social is going to pay while you're out of work, but it might not be all that is due, and they give YOU money !!!???!!!
(Brief interlude here for Kylie Minogue moment - "I should be so lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky...") Thank you Sian, thank you other Steve, we are unbelievably blessed to be your tenants.
I think of my Steve's worries before they came, and I wonder how many people miss the opportunity to feel excited like I did, because they are so busy trying to divert the bad thing that they predict is coming to them? If you have a choice, why not be a glass-half-full person as it surely makes the world look rosier?
Perhaps the pain of being 'unprepared' when something bad inevitably does happen (as it does to everybody sometime) outweighs all other considerations. The fear of being hurt again can leave us in the habit of looking over our shoulder, and missing the toothpaste rosebud right under our nose.
I do understand this, I honestly do. I found my own fears tripping me up this week, like dirty laundry dropped on a dark floor. I am visiting another doctor next week and all my past experiences with them hang on my back, pulling my focus away from reality, away from the positive, and away from the present. I am already envisioning not being listened to, being dismissed and disbelieved.
Have I gone completely bonkers? What possible good will that do me? That goes against everything I believe. And yet I am SO tired that, perhaps, I am not quite my usual self. I sense my brain malfunctioning and sending me down thought-tracks that are alien and uncomfortable for me, but have hardly the energy to resist.
How easy it would be to fall asleep on the job here, so to speak. To let the negative thoughts just run their course, determine my actions, and choose the words I speak to the doctor next week - to influence the attitude I walk in with and the way I listen (or not). How 'reasonable' to complain afterwards about the way I was treated, and divulge myself of all responsibility.
I've lived like that. We all have. We 'go with the flow' and think things are 'done to us'. Which we either like or don't, but always think we have no power over.
Bollocks.
I can't do that any more.
I will squeeze out a whole tube of toothpaste if necessary, until my brush is a bunch of roses. I will remember how much is possible. I will say "Thank you, thank you, thank you" to the universe for sending me that landlady, and I will go to the doctors with an open mind, heart, and ears. I will go expecting a gift, even if it is no more than the gift of someone's time.
I will see this as just one more step on my road to recovery.
I will believe in my recovery and give thanks in advance for it.
And I will do it with a fuzzy brain, no concentration, a tendancy to weep for no reason, an inability to get out of bed most days for long, and some significantly increased pain levels. Because, really, what is the alternative?
My glass is half full (of mouthwash) and my toothpaste is pink. Bring it on, guys, bring it on.
Squeezing out a blob of pink toothpaste and it forming a perfect, five-petalled rosebud on one's brush is a good start to the day, I find. It's a Zen thing, isn't it, to be able to find a moment of peace and beauty that grounds us in the here and now? Or is it only Zen if you can make it last longer than the time it takes to clean your teeth? Which I can't really. So possibly not that Zen.
Had a visit from our landlords this week. They are lovely people and it is always nice to see them, but so much nicer when you know you can afford the rent, which, temporarily, we can't, so Steve was quite anxious. I, however, live in an unreality bubble where showing them their newly laid patio, decorated bathroom, and beautifully made roman blind were all much more important to me, so I was quite excited.
My bubble won the day. They paid for the lino and the blind, and said to just keep them informed of what we can afford and when we can pay it, and left with a list of other things to get sorted for us on our behalf. How many landlords hear you tell them you don't know how much rent the social is going to pay while you're out of work, but it might not be all that is due, and they give YOU money !!!???!!!
(Brief interlude here for Kylie Minogue moment - "I should be so lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky...") Thank you Sian, thank you other Steve, we are unbelievably blessed to be your tenants.
I think of my Steve's worries before they came, and I wonder how many people miss the opportunity to feel excited like I did, because they are so busy trying to divert the bad thing that they predict is coming to them? If you have a choice, why not be a glass-half-full person as it surely makes the world look rosier?
Perhaps the pain of being 'unprepared' when something bad inevitably does happen (as it does to everybody sometime) outweighs all other considerations. The fear of being hurt again can leave us in the habit of looking over our shoulder, and missing the toothpaste rosebud right under our nose.
I do understand this, I honestly do. I found my own fears tripping me up this week, like dirty laundry dropped on a dark floor. I am visiting another doctor next week and all my past experiences with them hang on my back, pulling my focus away from reality, away from the positive, and away from the present. I am already envisioning not being listened to, being dismissed and disbelieved.
Have I gone completely bonkers? What possible good will that do me? That goes against everything I believe. And yet I am SO tired that, perhaps, I am not quite my usual self. I sense my brain malfunctioning and sending me down thought-tracks that are alien and uncomfortable for me, but have hardly the energy to resist.
How easy it would be to fall asleep on the job here, so to speak. To let the negative thoughts just run their course, determine my actions, and choose the words I speak to the doctor next week - to influence the attitude I walk in with and the way I listen (or not). How 'reasonable' to complain afterwards about the way I was treated, and divulge myself of all responsibility.
I've lived like that. We all have. We 'go with the flow' and think things are 'done to us'. Which we either like or don't, but always think we have no power over.
Bollocks.
I can't do that any more.
I will squeeze out a whole tube of toothpaste if necessary, until my brush is a bunch of roses. I will remember how much is possible. I will say "Thank you, thank you, thank you" to the universe for sending me that landlady, and I will go to the doctors with an open mind, heart, and ears. I will go expecting a gift, even if it is no more than the gift of someone's time.
I will see this as just one more step on my road to recovery.
I will believe in my recovery and give thanks in advance for it.
And I will do it with a fuzzy brain, no concentration, a tendancy to weep for no reason, an inability to get out of bed most days for long, and some significantly increased pain levels. Because, really, what is the alternative?
My glass is half full (of mouthwash) and my toothpaste is pink. Bring it on, guys, bring it on.
Wednesday, 28 July 2010
"A woman walked into a Doctor's surgery and said..."
Day 325
No news is so often good news, but not when it concerns one's health. I am so tired of feeling shitty as all hell, then giving in to pressure and going to the doc's, only to have tests that reveal absolutely nothing.
According to all the tests I have ever had, I am not only fine, but also possibly, in the very peak of health. Nothing EVER shows up as being wrong. The fact that I am also registered as disabled would seem to counter this notion, but there you are.
Now, normally this would not bother me. I lean towards an holistic point of view, and regard my healing as a personal matter. My body is communicating 'dis-ease' and I look for alternative ways to re-balance and heal.
Sometimes, however, I need a bit of traditional help. I'm not above taking Ibuprofen when I have period pains or having surgery when my appendix burst, to name two extremes.
Right now I know my hormone balance is so out of whack that my Thyroid is being beyond troublesome. That this is due to the menopause pushing me further out of kilter than usual is not unreasonable, but the chances of anything showing up on a blood test are zero - I know because I have tried many times before.
In the meantime, my weight has rocketed, I could sleep for England and win gold (even over teenagers!), and I'm so exhausted I can barely lift my arms to drink a cup of water half the time. Walking slowly up the stairs has me puffing and red in the face, shaky, dizzy, and needing to lie down.
But none of my symptoms count unless a blood test confirms them.
Which it never does, (even when I had a goitre that stuck out of my neck for a full inch).
I don't go to the Doc's for attention. I just want then to work with me to find a way for me to feel better.
Or even just to function adequately.
But they view patients with suspicion and condescension, in my book. I remember when my eldest son was crippled with constipation as a young, premature baby. He would scream with pain most of the time, eventually causing a hernia in his groin.
At the time, I had not heard of milk allergy - it was not common then. I only knew something was terribly wrong. The doctors treated me as if I couldn't possibly know my own baby better than them. I was sent away over and over.
Eventually I figured it out, with no help from them, but not until he had suffered nearly a year of pain and sleeplessness, and endured two operations.
What struck me most about it was not how long it took to find out what was wrong, but how I was continually dismissed as having no information worth considering, being 'only the parent'.
Since Sam was born and I became ill, I have faced the same attitude over and over again - my experiences, and the records I keep of my symptoms, are often considered irrelevant, or even unnecessarily intrusive. Certainly, they are rarely taken into account and mostly ignored.
So here I am again. Needing a bit of help with my Thyroid until the menopause is over.
I will go to the doc's again. I will take their tests again.
And then, I strongly suspect, absolutely nothing will happen.
But wouldn't it be nice if this time it did?
Fingers crossed, everybody, please.
No news is so often good news, but not when it concerns one's health. I am so tired of feeling shitty as all hell, then giving in to pressure and going to the doc's, only to have tests that reveal absolutely nothing.
According to all the tests I have ever had, I am not only fine, but also possibly, in the very peak of health. Nothing EVER shows up as being wrong. The fact that I am also registered as disabled would seem to counter this notion, but there you are.
Now, normally this would not bother me. I lean towards an holistic point of view, and regard my healing as a personal matter. My body is communicating 'dis-ease' and I look for alternative ways to re-balance and heal.
Sometimes, however, I need a bit of traditional help. I'm not above taking Ibuprofen when I have period pains or having surgery when my appendix burst, to name two extremes.
Right now I know my hormone balance is so out of whack that my Thyroid is being beyond troublesome. That this is due to the menopause pushing me further out of kilter than usual is not unreasonable, but the chances of anything showing up on a blood test are zero - I know because I have tried many times before.
In the meantime, my weight has rocketed, I could sleep for England and win gold (even over teenagers!), and I'm so exhausted I can barely lift my arms to drink a cup of water half the time. Walking slowly up the stairs has me puffing and red in the face, shaky, dizzy, and needing to lie down.
But none of my symptoms count unless a blood test confirms them.
Which it never does, (even when I had a goitre that stuck out of my neck for a full inch).
I don't go to the Doc's for attention. I just want then to work with me to find a way for me to feel better.
Or even just to function adequately.
But they view patients with suspicion and condescension, in my book. I remember when my eldest son was crippled with constipation as a young, premature baby. He would scream with pain most of the time, eventually causing a hernia in his groin.
At the time, I had not heard of milk allergy - it was not common then. I only knew something was terribly wrong. The doctors treated me as if I couldn't possibly know my own baby better than them. I was sent away over and over.
Eventually I figured it out, with no help from them, but not until he had suffered nearly a year of pain and sleeplessness, and endured two operations.
What struck me most about it was not how long it took to find out what was wrong, but how I was continually dismissed as having no information worth considering, being 'only the parent'.
Since Sam was born and I became ill, I have faced the same attitude over and over again - my experiences, and the records I keep of my symptoms, are often considered irrelevant, or even unnecessarily intrusive. Certainly, they are rarely taken into account and mostly ignored.
So here I am again. Needing a bit of help with my Thyroid until the menopause is over.
I will go to the doc's again. I will take their tests again.
And then, I strongly suspect, absolutely nothing will happen.
But wouldn't it be nice if this time it did?
Fingers crossed, everybody, please.
Wednesday, 21 July 2010
Loving like Haddi
Day 318
Finally! I get to the computer! Life with a husband at home and a son out of college is not my normal life, let alone my new life. Fitting around others all the time, at the moment, and finding it a trifle draining. Oh well.
Now. Updates.
Have done lots of sewing for Denise, my clever, clever friend who makes stage costumes. These were for the Globe Theatre's production of Anne Boleyn. I did all the lace and beads and fiddly diddles for two frocks. Very proud of myself.
Have received another rejection for my colour book for kids, but they were ever so complimentary about it, which is nice. Reason for rejection was that they had two similar books on their list already but the quality of the illustrations had made them consider it nonetheless. Very sweet way to say 'No', I thought.
Have started doing some voluntary work at a local charity shop. Wanted something to do that wouldn't be too taxing (as health bloody awful right now), but was community minded. Wanted to give back something as feel rather 'taking' at the moment, and that doesn't sit well with me. Am bringing home all the things with buttons missing or hems down to repair for them.
Also, made a little girl cry.
The little girl is called Haddi, and she is four years old and adorable. She is the grand-daughter of the lady who runs the charity shop and is all big green eyes, fuzzy dreadlocks, and chatter, and she adopted me as her playmate on my first afternoon on the job.
This was great. We played with lots of toy animals and a cardboard box, with endless variety. Then it was time for me to leave and she crumbled like a souffle in the wind. She hurled herself onto her mother's lap and sobbed.
What a humbling and heartfelt reminder about the true nature of love. The heart of a child simply opens to encompass you fully, with no reserve. You do not have to prove yourself or meet any expectations, and yet they take you into their world so completely that they are devastated at your leaving.
I look at my husband and my sons. Do I open myself that fully to them? No I do not - I keep something in reserve. I do not fling myself into my hubby's arms when he steps through the door, nor feel an aching loss at his parting. 'Real life' is, apparently, not like that. (Most of the time I don't even remember to give him a kiss.)
But perhaps we take too much for granted, play it all a bit too cool. When I remember the joy of little Haddi, I realise I want to open up more than I do, to appreciate those I say I love more openly, emphatically and enthusiastically. Why not, after all - they deserve it!
My love for them is in there somewhere, a little buried under everyday chores and niggles and worries, perhaps, but real enough in it's own way. If I look a little foolish pulling it up to the surface and choosing to show it abundantly, then where's the harm? I have stayed safe and subdued far too long.
Life can be draining and others take far more of one's energy than is comfortable, but - and it's a big but - what if they weren't there at all? How would I feel then? And one day they won't be. My last child will leave home and start his new life. My husband won't live forever. Have I made the best use of this time that I have with them?
Have I loved them like Haddi?
I want to love them like Haddi.
I just forget sometimes.
Finally! I get to the computer! Life with a husband at home and a son out of college is not my normal life, let alone my new life. Fitting around others all the time, at the moment, and finding it a trifle draining. Oh well.
Now. Updates.
Have done lots of sewing for Denise, my clever, clever friend who makes stage costumes. These were for the Globe Theatre's production of Anne Boleyn. I did all the lace and beads and fiddly diddles for two frocks. Very proud of myself.
Have received another rejection for my colour book for kids, but they were ever so complimentary about it, which is nice. Reason for rejection was that they had two similar books on their list already but the quality of the illustrations had made them consider it nonetheless. Very sweet way to say 'No', I thought.
Have started doing some voluntary work at a local charity shop. Wanted something to do that wouldn't be too taxing (as health bloody awful right now), but was community minded. Wanted to give back something as feel rather 'taking' at the moment, and that doesn't sit well with me. Am bringing home all the things with buttons missing or hems down to repair for them.
Also, made a little girl cry.
The little girl is called Haddi, and she is four years old and adorable. She is the grand-daughter of the lady who runs the charity shop and is all big green eyes, fuzzy dreadlocks, and chatter, and she adopted me as her playmate on my first afternoon on the job.
This was great. We played with lots of toy animals and a cardboard box, with endless variety. Then it was time for me to leave and she crumbled like a souffle in the wind. She hurled herself onto her mother's lap and sobbed.
What a humbling and heartfelt reminder about the true nature of love. The heart of a child simply opens to encompass you fully, with no reserve. You do not have to prove yourself or meet any expectations, and yet they take you into their world so completely that they are devastated at your leaving.
I look at my husband and my sons. Do I open myself that fully to them? No I do not - I keep something in reserve. I do not fling myself into my hubby's arms when he steps through the door, nor feel an aching loss at his parting. 'Real life' is, apparently, not like that. (Most of the time I don't even remember to give him a kiss.)
But perhaps we take too much for granted, play it all a bit too cool. When I remember the joy of little Haddi, I realise I want to open up more than I do, to appreciate those I say I love more openly, emphatically and enthusiastically. Why not, after all - they deserve it!
My love for them is in there somewhere, a little buried under everyday chores and niggles and worries, perhaps, but real enough in it's own way. If I look a little foolish pulling it up to the surface and choosing to show it abundantly, then where's the harm? I have stayed safe and subdued far too long.
Life can be draining and others take far more of one's energy than is comfortable, but - and it's a big but - what if they weren't there at all? How would I feel then? And one day they won't be. My last child will leave home and start his new life. My husband won't live forever. Have I made the best use of this time that I have with them?
Have I loved them like Haddi?
I want to love them like Haddi.
I just forget sometimes.
Monday, 5 July 2010
Delaying tactics
Day 302
There is a space between the past and the future where one is not necessarily present. A waiting room of a place, a limbo, a holding area. This is where I am firmly ensconced. Part of me is happy with this state of affairs, part of me wants to scream. I imagine myself battering on the windows, fists flailing, a primal yell erupting. I also see a waiting chair, where I meditate quietly, allowing the old to become the new in it's own good time.
I have no paintings to produce, and no studio to experiment in. No funds to buy paint with either, come to that. My first book is waiting in a pile on a publisher's desk, (take your time, Emily, give it a chance to grow on you), and my second has progressed enough for me to see how many re-writes it is likely to need, (I'm hoping only about four).
Meanwhile, time pootles along and the sense of urgency I once had is swallowed up in a deep pool of exhaustion, boredom, housekeeping and family problems. I am hemmed in by other peoples lives, ergo, I see no space for my own. Small niggles are starting to overwhelm me. The mess has crowded out all other thoughts. I have no creativity, only a longing, a yearning, and a tiredness that is bone-deep.
Tears sit to attention, ready for 'the off' like good little soldiers. My feet and back have gone on strike. They have withdrawn their support until working conditions improve. My eyes are traitors. Everywhere I look I am reminded of something I want but can't have - a clean place to sit, a project finished, a dream realised, a space of a few hours where there is literally nothing that I am supposed to do.
There is a growing list waiting for me which, at time of going to press, includes buying sawdust and cleaning out the guinea pigs, giving them baths and cutting Sandra's hair, the laundry, this weeks ironing and last weeks, packing away my painting stuff and getting out my sewing stuff, cleaning the bathroom and hoovering the stairs, laying the lino in the bathroom and making and hanging the roman blind, tidying up everywhere, weeding the garden and dead-heading the flowers, taking garden rubbish to the tip and finishing off pruning the trees, buying something to stop the cherry re-sprouting where it is cut and applying it, putting weedkiller on the paths and patio, and slug pellets around the pots and hostas, writing thank-you letters for my birthday and other thank-you letters for recent hospitality from friends, writing to Arnol, our sponsored child in Honduras, packing up catalogue rejects and phoning the courier to come and collect them, feeding the cat and the family, working out menus to fit our very limited budget and doing the food shopping and the cooking, turning on lights and opening curtains because our house is too dark, making the bed and sorting out all the stuff that didn't get sorted out when I changed the room around so I could paint, putting the loo-roll on the holder because nobody else does, picking some flowers to put in the house so it feels more like a nurturing place, picking up a book from the library and taking others back, paying the fines, emptying the compost bin in the kitchen and cleaning out the fridge, cooker and microwave, cleaning all the insides of the windows, changing the cat litter, and washing the downstairs floors.
Steve has been doing all the washing up and a fair bit of the shopping and cooking. Although lovely, this is not taking a lot from my list, and all the time that both Sam and Steve are in the house, the mess grows ever larger.
I am helpless within it because the menopause has cranked up my PMS to unbelievable proportions, and the Chronic Fatigue Syndrome has gone stratospheric. My Progesterone levels have been ridiculously low since I got ill after Sam was born. Progesterone is like Insulin, you see - part of a bio-feedback system that allows the brain to work out how much sugar is in the blood, and too little Progesterone gives a faulty reading. Consequently, the brain demands that you eat to correct the balance.
This is not hunger. I know hunger. This is a severe craving along the lines of cold turkey drug withdrawal. If I try to resist, the brain goes to it's emergency supply and produces Adrenalin to get the process going. This, the 'fight or flight' hormone, leaves me edgy, anxious, tearful, irritable, pacing the floor, unable to function or make decisions (even about what I want to eat), snappy, shaky, nauseous, and head-achey. If I persist in not eating, or am unable to get to food, it can lead to a complete system shut-down where I pretty much collapse and can't talk, or raise my arms, or even support my own head, for several hours. I've ended up in hospital like this a few times, but the doctors were baffled and unsympathetic.
To avoid this I eat, and I am now thirteen and a half stone and getting fed up with the whole process. I lie exhausted on the sofa, and I eat. I do use a Progesterone supplement but, after nearly twenty years, this is how my body is used to operating and it doesn't want to change. So I am intending to fast today because I have read that this can help with food cravings - I wish them to be back to manageable levels, a place where I don't weep on the hour, every hour, if I can't get chocolate (which I don't like that much and leaves me feeling sick). Perhaps this will at least nudge my brain into a re-think - a complete re-boot would be a lot to ask, I suspect.
A time of limbo is perhaps not such a disaster when I am as knocked out as this as, although I rest a lot, my batteries fail to recharge. My space is not nurturing and my family demanding. Seeing friends and doing things that are fun seem to help, but the effect is short-lived without a structure to support it.
The mantra that pulled me out of depression was 'This too will pass', and it is just as apposite here. When it passes, as all things must, I hope I will have learnt something other than how to blind myself to chaos, clutter and mess. That would be a sad thing.
I may have no will within me that I can harness to complete any of the chores, but I do have a cup of hot lemon. And I do have hope. It is just as well that no-one is battering down my door with commissions or contracts, and although I'm sure that would galvanise me for a while, the problem would still persist. I prefer solutions when I can, I'm not much of a one for a hamster-wheel sort of life.
I am in limbo. I am waiting. I am stuck between the past and the future. I take another sip from my cup, I look out of the window, and I hope.
There is a space between the past and the future where one is not necessarily present. A waiting room of a place, a limbo, a holding area. This is where I am firmly ensconced. Part of me is happy with this state of affairs, part of me wants to scream. I imagine myself battering on the windows, fists flailing, a primal yell erupting. I also see a waiting chair, where I meditate quietly, allowing the old to become the new in it's own good time.
I have no paintings to produce, and no studio to experiment in. No funds to buy paint with either, come to that. My first book is waiting in a pile on a publisher's desk, (take your time, Emily, give it a chance to grow on you), and my second has progressed enough for me to see how many re-writes it is likely to need, (I'm hoping only about four).
Meanwhile, time pootles along and the sense of urgency I once had is swallowed up in a deep pool of exhaustion, boredom, housekeeping and family problems. I am hemmed in by other peoples lives, ergo, I see no space for my own. Small niggles are starting to overwhelm me. The mess has crowded out all other thoughts. I have no creativity, only a longing, a yearning, and a tiredness that is bone-deep.
Tears sit to attention, ready for 'the off' like good little soldiers. My feet and back have gone on strike. They have withdrawn their support until working conditions improve. My eyes are traitors. Everywhere I look I am reminded of something I want but can't have - a clean place to sit, a project finished, a dream realised, a space of a few hours where there is literally nothing that I am supposed to do.
There is a growing list waiting for me which, at time of going to press, includes buying sawdust and cleaning out the guinea pigs, giving them baths and cutting Sandra's hair, the laundry, this weeks ironing and last weeks, packing away my painting stuff and getting out my sewing stuff, cleaning the bathroom and hoovering the stairs, laying the lino in the bathroom and making and hanging the roman blind, tidying up everywhere, weeding the garden and dead-heading the flowers, taking garden rubbish to the tip and finishing off pruning the trees, buying something to stop the cherry re-sprouting where it is cut and applying it, putting weedkiller on the paths and patio, and slug pellets around the pots and hostas, writing thank-you letters for my birthday and other thank-you letters for recent hospitality from friends, writing to Arnol, our sponsored child in Honduras, packing up catalogue rejects and phoning the courier to come and collect them, feeding the cat and the family, working out menus to fit our very limited budget and doing the food shopping and the cooking, turning on lights and opening curtains because our house is too dark, making the bed and sorting out all the stuff that didn't get sorted out when I changed the room around so I could paint, putting the loo-roll on the holder because nobody else does, picking some flowers to put in the house so it feels more like a nurturing place, picking up a book from the library and taking others back, paying the fines, emptying the compost bin in the kitchen and cleaning out the fridge, cooker and microwave, cleaning all the insides of the windows, changing the cat litter, and washing the downstairs floors.
Steve has been doing all the washing up and a fair bit of the shopping and cooking. Although lovely, this is not taking a lot from my list, and all the time that both Sam and Steve are in the house, the mess grows ever larger.
I am helpless within it because the menopause has cranked up my PMS to unbelievable proportions, and the Chronic Fatigue Syndrome has gone stratospheric. My Progesterone levels have been ridiculously low since I got ill after Sam was born. Progesterone is like Insulin, you see - part of a bio-feedback system that allows the brain to work out how much sugar is in the blood, and too little Progesterone gives a faulty reading. Consequently, the brain demands that you eat to correct the balance.
This is not hunger. I know hunger. This is a severe craving along the lines of cold turkey drug withdrawal. If I try to resist, the brain goes to it's emergency supply and produces Adrenalin to get the process going. This, the 'fight or flight' hormone, leaves me edgy, anxious, tearful, irritable, pacing the floor, unable to function or make decisions (even about what I want to eat), snappy, shaky, nauseous, and head-achey. If I persist in not eating, or am unable to get to food, it can lead to a complete system shut-down where I pretty much collapse and can't talk, or raise my arms, or even support my own head, for several hours. I've ended up in hospital like this a few times, but the doctors were baffled and unsympathetic.
To avoid this I eat, and I am now thirteen and a half stone and getting fed up with the whole process. I lie exhausted on the sofa, and I eat. I do use a Progesterone supplement but, after nearly twenty years, this is how my body is used to operating and it doesn't want to change. So I am intending to fast today because I have read that this can help with food cravings - I wish them to be back to manageable levels, a place where I don't weep on the hour, every hour, if I can't get chocolate (which I don't like that much and leaves me feeling sick). Perhaps this will at least nudge my brain into a re-think - a complete re-boot would be a lot to ask, I suspect.
A time of limbo is perhaps not such a disaster when I am as knocked out as this as, although I rest a lot, my batteries fail to recharge. My space is not nurturing and my family demanding. Seeing friends and doing things that are fun seem to help, but the effect is short-lived without a structure to support it.
The mantra that pulled me out of depression was 'This too will pass', and it is just as apposite here. When it passes, as all things must, I hope I will have learnt something other than how to blind myself to chaos, clutter and mess. That would be a sad thing.
I may have no will within me that I can harness to complete any of the chores, but I do have a cup of hot lemon. And I do have hope. It is just as well that no-one is battering down my door with commissions or contracts, and although I'm sure that would galvanise me for a while, the problem would still persist. I prefer solutions when I can, I'm not much of a one for a hamster-wheel sort of life.
I am in limbo. I am waiting. I am stuck between the past and the future. I take another sip from my cup, I look out of the window, and I hope.
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