OMG-WTF

I did share the news about the possibility of motor neurone-with my closest friends, whose reactions were as above: Oh My God, What the Fuck!!?? This is no time to be particularly PC-not that I've ever been PC anyway, as regular readers know by now.

I had a weepy and sleepless weekend last week-but how could I have anything other than that? And who in their right mind-regardless of how overworked and grumpy they are at the time- would ever just say to a patient "oh, by the way, they think you have motor neurone, but they didn't want to tell you". Duh?? It's like saying to someone "You've got cancer. But never mind, have a cup of tea, and would you like a biscuit with that?".

Everyone I know consulted the Great God Google-including me. I'm forever looking up things on Google-it has to be one of the greatest inventions of all time, up there with Microsoft, computers, antibiotics, Starbucks and Kettle Chips. Mustn't forget Starbucks and Kettle Chips, they kept me going all week. Hang the five a day. Enjoy life.

This week was a bit tricky. I met up with a friend who sold her flat, quit her job, and has been looking for work since just after New Year's. I told her not to worry, that she would find something really great, and she felt better. Last night she phoned me and told me that she starts her new job on Tuesday. Well, I had to be supportive, and I could hear relief in her voice.

That was the start of an okay week. I decided that I don't have motor neurone, and that there is nothing I can do about it until I retake the tests, and that will happen-er-sometime. The NHS is so overstretched that who knows when this will all take place? I have to stop worrying about everything-no wonder I get depressed! I mentally swore at the doctor who gave me this news without thinking about it first. You know, there is always one, isn't there, with the "bedside manner" of Attila the Hun.

We had this storm called Doris, and furiously high winds. I knew I was in for a tough time getting to see my friend Dani in Essex, but I decided to go anyway. I didn't go anywhere on Tuesday, walked a bit on Wednesday, and could feel the change in my balance almost immediately. If I don't do the vestibular exercises and walk-a lot-every day, I start to revert back to where I was a year ago, and that doesn't make me very happy. These exercises are for life. Thanks to the four cripplers at Barts for that-but it does give me a challenge, so I just keep going, like the Energizer bunny.

Well-the wind blew me everywhere on Thursday-and there were times I thought I was going to end up in traffic, which I found a bit scary. But I persevered, fought the very high winds, and got to see my friend on time. I even fought the winds on the way back, and there were times where I had to stop walking and stand there and get thrown around. But I got back (took three hours), got blown into the flat, made a strong coffee, and realized that I hadn't fallen over once. Not once.

Miracles do happen, and I'm living proof of that. By rights I should have been dead long ago, but I'm still going. And the fact that I got there and back without any problems-except strong winds, which I decided to fight so I could get there in time-was a huge win for me. I never could have done this a couple of years ago. I wouldn't even have attempted it, I didn't have the confidence.

It's quite amazing how you cope when you don't really have any other choice. So I just keep putting one foot in front of another and hope that I won't fall over myself. And one lesson of this past week is: never believe everything anyone tells you. Demand proof. Just because they call themselves "experts" it doesn't mean that they aren't really total assholes.

Running around in ever decreasing circles...until I vanish up my own backside

That is one of those northern sayings that make me laugh-and this hasn't been a week of joy and laughter, I can tell you. You know when you lose your temper over something that is so trivial that it wouldn't ordinarily bother you? And then, when you look at it later (if you look at it later), you see that it reminded you of something in your past that was really important (or you thought so at the time)? That was my week.

I had the weepies last weekend, and they lasted all week. I couldn't figure out why-because Valentine's Day doesn't really have any significance any more. Even when I was married, my ex ignored it as being unimportant and insignificant-but he did that with birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas, etc., so I got used to it. Then I divorced him. Well, obviously.

I spent the entire week with a bad feeling, and I have learned the hard way (believe me, it was definitely the hard way!) to trust that when I get a bad feeling in my gut, it usually isn't food poisoning, but something I need to trust.

This was a hospital week, and I've got a few more of those before I have a few odd appointments here and there, so I can actually get things done (dust bunnies. Yick-so many dust bunnies I could open a dust bunny store). Apart from my infusions, I had two consultants' appointments, and those should have been routine-except, they weren't routine at all. No wonder I had a pissed off week.

If you've been following this for awhile, you've been with me through the gentamicin, idiots at the Royal London and Barts very nearly killing me, having to fight my way back from being bedridden for two years, cancer and a double mastectomy...the list goes on. And on. And on. And here I thought that I am, after a hellish seven year period, turning the corner. So it was a huge shock when I was told that I need to have more tests to confirm a diagnosis of-get ready for it-motor neurone.

More tests, more scans-I'll probably just keel over from radiation poisoning. But Dr. X said that we repeat the tests-and do more-just to be certain. Dr. X-very experienced, very competent, pretty good "bedside manner". So we'll see-and if I'm in for another fight, well, I'm used to it.

I had the warning shot over the bow about using names in the blog, because some people get really upset (even though I've heaped praise on the ones who deserve that praise). Of course, the cripplers-and Bucky Buckland, the Anti-Christ-will always be fair game. But now, everyone at my new hospital is "Mr. X" or "Mr. Y"-regardless of gender. And if that upsets any females, they can smack me in the head the next time they see me. The problem is this: CRS (Can't Remember Shit), and the fact that there are so many specialists I forget who is Mr. X and who is Mr. Y. So I have at least three Mr. Ys-they''' be more confused than I am, and that (depending on the specialty) can be worrying.

Can I use "the one with the grey hair"? No, they all have grey hair-and some of them have no hair. So, Mr. X it is, and I'll just figure it out as I go along.

I seem to be over the initial shock of the (possible) diagnosis, and I've decided that I can't do anything right now except ruminate over it, and we all know how useless that is, so I'll just wait. Not even the thought of stuffing my face with Kettle Chips had an impact-so perhaps I'll do some spring cleaning a little early.

There are worse things to worry about-like the possibility of that mental case Trump starting a war. That will certainly end the prospect of anyone worrying about anything, because it will be the end of life on earth. Aren't I cheerful? But I will protest if he does anything even more stupid before Easter, because my friend is coming over from Ireland, and I really want to spend some time with her before there is a nuclear war.

One of the doctors this last week (Dr. Y-one of them) asked me if my personality has changed lately. I asked if being more grumpy than usual counts. I'm grumpy, and bad tempered, but I said that people who are rude and incredibly stupid (and who just crash into me without looking and then swear at me afterwards) really get me angry. So, okay, that was accepted. Then I was asked if I laugh at things that nobody else finds funny, or if I don't find everyone else's humor funny. Now there is a minefield, and I said that I do laugh at strange things, but that is my sense of humor: dry, dark, probably a little twisted. I said that will probably never change, just ask my friends (who are just as strange as I am).
I spent an hour answering questions-and this is the NHS, where you have to wait two hours after your appointment to see anyone (if you're lucky), and then you get ten minutes (also if you're lucky). So that's how I knew it was serious.

I guess we will have to see what happens. And now-I'm off to Starbucks. Hang the motor neurone.

Rise of the Walking Dead

I felt like I could be one of the extras in The Walking Dead-no makeup required. This flu/chest infection/dreaded lurgy that has been going around flattened me for three weeks, and I coughed so much that I started looking to see if lung tissue was coming up. And, because of the immunity (or lack thereof), I was on heavy duty antibiotics, and it took a week to get over those. So I only did what I really had to do, and cancelled or deferred everything else.

Now I have returned to the land of the living-and all the ideas I had of just stopping everything-by everything I mean the antibody replacement, the antibiotics, all the treatments-went out the window. I realize that everything I'm doing keeps me from developing something that will kill me-well, hopefully, anyway. I still have the tremendous desire to reach my hundredth birthday, be fit, healthy and compos mentis, and be riding on my Harley down the Pacific Coast Highway with my 80 year old toyboy sitting behind me (someone has to be able to pick up the bike if it falls over, come on), stop and look at the scenery and then just keel over. What a way to go (either that or be having sex-at 100-now there's a terrific way to come and go at the same time).

One thing that cheered me up during this flu ridden time was last Thursday-Groundhog Day. Every February 2, I look for footage of Punxsutawney Phil, the world's most famous groundhog, leaving his burrow, waving his little paws at the world's press, and looking for his shadow. If he sees it, that means we have six more weeks of winter. It's such an old tradition-it's great fun, I think, watching these old guys in their top hats going to confer with Phil. I cannot for the life of me understand why some people get so bitchy about the fact that Phil isn't always right. Who cares? It's fun, and a reason to party and celebrate-God knows that our world needs any excuse to celebrate right now. I think the naysayers are the ones who had no friends in school, and probably still don't. There are many copies of Phil now-but he's the first, and the real deal.

Apparently Phil came out of his burrow right on schedule, waved his little paws at the cameras, did a few jumps (only a few-he's really old, after all), and when one of the old guys told him that there is a big fat rodent with bad hair and a worse attitude in the White House, he declared that we will have four more years of winter (probably nuclear winter), and that he was going on strike for four years and would come back before the next election. Of course, that is only if there is a Pennsylvania, or a United States, Europe, or the rest of the world.

Millions of Americans wish that we could do the same.

People here have asked me why we seem to worship Punxsutawney Phil, since he is only a rodent. I reply that the Brits worship their own rodents (they live in the palace, Downing Street, Whitehall, etc), and, in fact, this country is completely overrun by rodents. Some of them even have four legs.

I'm back to normal, as you can tell, irascible as ever. And we have snow. I like that too, having grown up with snow angels, snowball fights, snow days off school (especially snow days, every child's dream). But here, one hundredth of a millimetre of snow means that everything in London (and the rest of the country) stops. Trains don't run on time (and sometimes not at all) because there is white stuff on the tracks, buses don't work, flights are cancelled...it's funny, really-but only if I have no place to go.

One day (maybe) these guys will sort themselves out. Things will work (maybe), the NHS will be saved (not likely, in my lifetime-or anyone else's), people will stop bitching and whingeing about Brexit (which could be the best thing that this country has done in decades. Or not. Only time will tell), and, by that time, I will be riding down the Pacific Coast Highway on my Harley.

I'm off to Starbucks. Some things work regardless of the weather!