The art of getting even

This last week has been a very interesting one. Read "interesting" as a learning experience. Read "learning experience" as being very, very dire. Can't complain too much though. Nobody died.

It all began on Friday morning. I was getting ready for the Race for Life on Saturday, so I went to the gym, but didn't tax myself too much. I also knew that four of us were going to have a firework party that night, so I was also getting out the fireworks that I bought in November. In this country, fireworks are only legal on November 5th, Guy Fawkes Day. I always buy them -we all do-and keep them for July. Plead ignorance if we get caught, I say-and in ten years, we have never been caught. One day I will eat my words.

One of the women phoned me on Friday morning. Claire was really upset, because her dirtbag of a husband informed her that he was in love with someone else and was leaving her. He informed her-by fax. What a gent! I was furious. I said that if he had any balls at all he would have done the deed in person. So I called the other two women, and told Claire I was on my way to her place in East London. Sara had the day off, and Debbie is self-employed, so it all worked perfectly: we congregated at Claire's.

It was the usual: let's kneecap him. No, too messy. How about we cut his balls off? No, I said, if he had any, he wouldn't have told Claire by fax. So we did the usual: changed the locks, called Sara's friend (who was her divorce lawyer), got all the instructions about going to the bank, taking a lien on the property, searches for anything Geoff had hidden away anywhere...and the ball was rolling, to coin a phrase.

I said-let's get even, legally. We all knew that Geoff kept more than one set of books, and he was so arrogant, he clearly believed that he could waltz in and take all his stuff-and his financial records. Surprise. We scoured the house, found a locked drawer in his desk-and found lots of very interesting stuff to give to the lawyer. And the tax man. Geoff will be audited. And we didn't stop there. We put a copy of the fax onto his Facebook page, emailed everyone Claire and Geoff knew, and Sara had taken photos of bruises and black eyes that Claire had suffered by "falling over"-into his fist. All that information went-everywhere. And that is the way to get even. Legally.

We set off our fireworks in Claire's backyard, and on Saturday morning I made my way back to North London, and prepared for the race. I had a bad feeling about the Hampstead Race for Life, and it turned out to be justified. For one thing, it was raining. Hard. I have problems in the rain.

When I reached Hampstead Heath, one of the organizers came over to me, very concerned. It turns out that I was the only person doing the race who was on an elbow crutch. And-there were 2,400 of us doing the race. I did say-2,400. The organizer proceeded to tell me that Hampstead was the worst and most difficult of all the London courses, because there were very steep hills, potholes, uneven pavement, and - because of the rain - lots of lovely mud. She said that there would be marshals along the course, and if I felt I needed to sit down-or stop-someone would be there to assist me. More than one person came up to me to tell me how awful and treacherous the Hampstead course was; why didn't I choose one of the easier areas?

Oh, good grief, they weren't kidding. And I used to live near the Heath, so I have no excuse for thinking that it was going to be (sorry!) a walk in the park. It was horrendous. By the time I reached the 1K marker I was nearly in tears. I wanted to quit. I realized that I had chosen a course that was way beyond my capabilities. I think I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it. What an idiot!

By the time I reached the 2K marker, most of the 2,400 had passed me, and some nearly knocked me over. And worse, many locals decided to walk their dogs, their children, their buggies right smack in the middle of all of us, and were stupid enough to think we should be the ones to move out of their way. Never let it be said that there aren't enough braindeads to go around. How many villages were missing their idiots on Saturday?

It was boiling hot, and humid, and I struggled badly. All I could see when I looked ahead were-more steep hills. So I stopped, stepped to the side, took a few deep breaths and tried to cool down, and took a few swings of water. I kept thinking: I really need something to motivate me to go on, because I don't really think I can go on.

Not 30 seconds after I had that thought, I had my motivation. I was overtaken by two small dogs and a woman in a gorilla suit. A gorilla suit was all it took to get me going again-after I stopped laughing, that is!

I struggled and struggled, my muscles were screaming, my entire body was screaming-I was in such a bad state-but as I crossed the finish line, I turned around and saw several people (able-bodied-not on crutches) sauntering up behind me. So I didn't finish last after all. But someone put a medal around my neck (we all got medals as we crossed the finish line), gave me a bottle of water, and applauded. And I still felt like I was going to die.

I don't know to this day how I managed to get home, because I could hardly stand up, let alone walk. I got in the door and had to lie down, and I have been in bed since Saturday. That is how long it took me to recover. But I look at my wall and I can see the card with my race number on it, and next to it I pinned the Race for Life 2014 medal. I still won't ever do that again-if I do the race in 2015, I will choose an easier course. I learned the hard way. I learned the excruciatingly painful way. But I sure as hell learned.

I got so fed up with people (doctors, mainly) calling me "disabled", or "crippled"-or, worse, "frail". I'm not frail, not by a long shot. I have come a long way in the four years since the gentamicin incident. But on my wall I also have a printed saying: never, never, never give up. So now I know my limitations-but I am still working on getting better. I've been told that I will "never" regain all my balance, and that I might have reached the point beyond which I probably will not go. Maybe. Maybe not. Never say never.

I couldn't help thinking about all the people who took part in the race on Saturday. 2,400 people, and all  have taken a hit in one way or another, all have lost someone to cancer, or have had it themselves. I was in tears as we all stood there, having a moment's silence just before the race began. We were all participating for a common purpose: to eradicate this insidious disease once and for all.

I can walk now, and I do feel a sense of triumph and achievement, even though participating in such a tough course was more than a little on the dumb side. I still did it (but I won't do it again!).

2,400 of us. Plus two dogs. And a gorilla.