I finally put the chocolate bunny out of its misery-or, perhaps, out of my misery-and scoffed it on Saturday morning. At 5am, after eating the rest of the Kettle Chips and having two strong mugs of coffee. Why? Because the deranged psycho upstairs neighbor from Hell was drilling all Friday night. Again. I so wanted him to slip with the drill and put a nice, large hole in his head (I'm pretty sure there's nothing in there anyway, but a large hole would be perfect). Then we would be rid of him once and for all.
I know it's very uncharitable of me. And so un-Christian. And bad karma. Who gives a shit?
The good news is that I bought two chocolate bunnies, just in case I couldn't wait for Easter Sunday. Be prepared-I learned something useful in the Girl Scouts. So I munched through the second one on Sunday. There really wasn't anything else to do, since most of the shops were closed. I had a long walk and took my bunny with me. It was great: the Lindt bunny, the elbow crutch and me, all walking up the hill, trying to trip as many idiots as I could. I was very purposeful-and people really did get out of my way. For once.
I did my going to the hospital thing all week: infusions, blood work, and all that-but a friend rang to ask me if I wanted to go to the movies. The Second Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, or a reasonable facsimile thereof (very long title). The deal? We would go see that and then today would go see Fast and Furious 7. I'm such a sucker for good special effects. Put me in front of anything with car chases or lots of effects, give me a bag of Kettle Chips, and I'm as happy as can be. If I'm that easy to please, I really do need to get out more.
Now isn't the time to simply take a leisurely walk. The general election is imminent, and as soon as you leave the house you get accosted by someone from one of the parties, desperate to get your vote. And-I am political, and everything that is going on has an effect on my healing, whether directly or indirectly. So-here is an inside view of the upcoming election from an objective (well, nearly objective) foreigner who is not an ancient pop star or a rich actress who names her child after a fruit.
Cameron is our incumbent Prime Minister, and Cameron and the Conservatives are doing their best to dismantle the NHS-preferably without anyone noticing. Like a certain President who looked directly at the cameras and took credit for Bin Laden (credit which he certainly didn't deserve, since he did nothing), Cameron loves looking into the camera lens and lying through his teeth. He is a politician-so you know he is lying when his lips move. In fact, he lies when he takes a breath. He is a born liar-and this country is suffering greatly for it. But people are, as you know, incredibly stupid. Braindeads will believe him, and vote for him, and then live (possibly) to regret it. Call me Dave-is a world-class, blue ribbon, totally incompetent, lying douchebag. That is a compliment; I could say so much more (but I leave that to the other politicians, who aren't much better).
Then there is Nick Clegg, the co-imbecile of this coalition government. Clegg just opens his mouth and sticks his foot in it-sometimes both feet. The best description of Clegg is-well, one four-letter word that rhymes with his first name and begins with a D. Enough said. The prospect of having him elected as prime minister is cringeworthy. Maybe even vomit-inducing.
Who is next? Oh dear-Ed Miliband, the head of the Labour Party. To his credit, Ed has been criticizing the pressing financial issues-instead of doing a Call me Dave and spending all his time trying to discredit the competition. But Labour shot itself in the foot by appointing him, rather than his (in my opinion, anyway) more intelligent and more qualified brother, who had the sense to pick his family up and take a job in New York. David Miliband is making big bucks in New York, and Ed-Ed is Ed. He has all the charisma of a cowpat. Would you vote for a cowpat? Exactly my point.
Then there is UKIP. UKIP is vilified by the tabloids, but, of course, the tabloids only hire imbeciles who are unable to spell, or punctuate, or put together a sentence of more than four words (most of them under four letters long). Tabloids: the Mail, Express, Sun, Mirror-they are all on a par with the National Enquirer. People read them. People listen to them. They express their opinions, their prejudices-anything but actual news. And, of course, the Guardian, leftist pseudo-intellectual tabloid wolf in a sheep's clothing, is just as bad, since it appeals to the racist and dimwitted masses.
UKIP is for putting the brakes on immigration, for one thing. If you speak with anyone who was born in this country, who worked all their lives, paid their taxes, fought in one of the wars-they will tell you how unhappy they are with the doors being opened to people from the European Union- because it would seem that many of them come over to claim benefits, not to work.
It is very difficult to separate the lies from the truth, the promises (most of which will never be kept) from all the bullshit. I keep my head under the parapet, keep my opinions to myself (except on this blog, where I feel free to go to town, fire verbal missiles, and just call it as I see it), and on voting day I will be reading a book and minding my own business.
There was something on BBC News (just as bad as everyone else, sadly) about all our emails being investigated by MI5, the NSA, and all the security services. They are looking for key words (allegedly) to pinpoint possible terrorist attacks. So when I say I fire potshots, and missiles, I hasten to add that these are all verbal. Otherwise I will be blogging from jail.
I wonder if they would have working wi-fi? Hmmm.....
Thursday, 9 April 2015
Friday, 3 April 2015
I nearly forgot...
I was so busy chuckling about the disastrous meeting on Wednesday (and did I keep my temper? Yes, I did. Barely. I'm learning. Maybe when I'm 90 I might even have learned tact, diplomacy, sensitivity, and to curb the intense desire to smack some idiot in the head).
I've got most of a chocolate bunny left. And another bag of Kettle Chips (buy in bulk, I say-just in case there is a famine). And a bottle of Jack Daniel's (full. That tells you how much I drink. I usually open the bottle and just take a whiff).
It's Easter (yeah, bfd. To someone, somewhere). I'm all set up. I've got one from every food group. Who could ask for more? So bite off those tiny chocolate heads and feet, and enjoy. Good thing it only comes once a year. I would end up weighing 300 pounds and I would have to come and go by the window.
I've got most of a chocolate bunny left. And another bag of Kettle Chips (buy in bulk, I say-just in case there is a famine). And a bottle of Jack Daniel's (full. That tells you how much I drink. I usually open the bottle and just take a whiff).
It's Easter (yeah, bfd. To someone, somewhere). I'm all set up. I've got one from every food group. Who could ask for more? So bite off those tiny chocolate heads and feet, and enjoy. Good thing it only comes once a year. I would end up weighing 300 pounds and I would have to come and go by the window.
The King of Naff
How did I start Good Friday? I bit the head off my Easter bunny. I hasten to add that the bunny is a chocolate one, so don't worry. No harm was done to any animals, real or imagined. Well-only a chocolate one. I buy the Lindt ones, and this sat on my kitchen table for about five days...if it could have spoken, it would have said "eat me, eat me". I did well to wait until 6:00 this morning. And it is still sitting on my kitchen counter, looking very forlorn. Well-it would be looking forlorn if it had a head, which it most unfortunately does not. Good thing I didn't give up chocolate for Lent. Or anything else, for that matter, since I polished off a bag of Kettle Chips last night. And good for me, too.
I have a "naff meter"-I've had this for years, and I find that it keeps me sane (ish). I simply consign people and situations to naff, really naff, and naffed out. I went to see Andy (the minister) on Wednesday, and when you read what happened I think you'll agree that he goes well off the naff scale. I could think of a few other four letter words, but naff will do at the moment.
He phoned me and told me that people were telling him that I was really angry. He wanted to hear it from me personally. So I told him I was, and I reminded him that I had told him in church that I was very offended by his going and forming the yellow shirts (what I call his "love" group). The problem is that nothing sinks in with Andy; he suffers from what I call selective memory: he conveniently forgets what you tell him if it goes against what he wants to believe. So many people are like that-but he is a minister, he is supposed to be above such naff behavior.
So I went to see him on Wednesday morning-and it was the longest and most unpleasant hour I have had since I had to sit in the hospital waiting to have my blood taken. That was like a trip to the Bahamas when compared with listening to Andy. He wanted to know about this mass in my abdomen. He then asked me if I had made any funeral arrangements. Did I want a Church of England funeral? He smirked at that. Did I want music? What kind? Did I want a "living will"? And when I moved the conversation away from sickness (he has decided that I am on death's door. Now I feel like it), he said that if I want to help the social justice team I should chain myself to a fence in central London and contact the press and say that a dying woman is making a stand about the cuts in the NHS. I had to laugh at that...and I finally had enough, said I had to leave. I didn't really want him to decide to help send my on my way...
Well - naffness is everywhere. Actually, that wasn't naff. That was just plain obnoxious and nasty. So I am rethinking whether or not I want to return to the Unitarians. Excuse me if I'm not going to chain myself anywhere. And-I won't know what this mass in my abdomen is until someone decides to cut me open and find out. I think they can do keyhole and remove it. If not, I will consider if I can live with it. I really doubt that it is malignant. Either way, I will deal with the facts when I know the facts.
Did I tell you that Barts Trust has had to sack the CEO, CFO and Chief Medical Officer? If I did, just nod off for a few minutes, because I will chalk that up to CRS.. The facts: Barts has lost 500 million pounds. That is what I said: 500 million pounds. Sterling. How do you lose 500 million pounds in a year? You can't really hide it in your mattress and forget about it, can you? So where did it go?
And what they are now doing is cutting services and cutting staff to try to make up that loss. I am already facing a cut in the amount of immunoglobulin I receive. So it is only a matter of time-according to my nurse, John-before the immunology service is discontinued, and becomes a part of some other hospital. Where? Who knows? Welcome to the NHS. They're Brits. So they're about 18 on the naff scale that runs from 1-10. They're just too stupid to know it.
When this joke of a general election is over and we have either the current moron (Cameron) as Prime Minister or some other moron, I will be able to actually go out and do something besides go to hospital appointments. My professional patient calendar finishes just at the election. So I will have most of the summer to play. I will be so free, I won't know what to do with myself.
Maybe I should get a stash of Lindt chocolate bunnies to go with my stash of Kettle Chips. I might get really fat-but boy, will I ever be happy!! (And I'm not planning on dying just yet. Maybe when I'm 100 and riding down the Pacific Coast Highway on my Harley. What a way to make an exit!).
I have a "naff meter"-I've had this for years, and I find that it keeps me sane (ish). I simply consign people and situations to naff, really naff, and naffed out. I went to see Andy (the minister) on Wednesday, and when you read what happened I think you'll agree that he goes well off the naff scale. I could think of a few other four letter words, but naff will do at the moment.
He phoned me and told me that people were telling him that I was really angry. He wanted to hear it from me personally. So I told him I was, and I reminded him that I had told him in church that I was very offended by his going and forming the yellow shirts (what I call his "love" group). The problem is that nothing sinks in with Andy; he suffers from what I call selective memory: he conveniently forgets what you tell him if it goes against what he wants to believe. So many people are like that-but he is a minister, he is supposed to be above such naff behavior.
So I went to see him on Wednesday morning-and it was the longest and most unpleasant hour I have had since I had to sit in the hospital waiting to have my blood taken. That was like a trip to the Bahamas when compared with listening to Andy. He wanted to know about this mass in my abdomen. He then asked me if I had made any funeral arrangements. Did I want a Church of England funeral? He smirked at that. Did I want music? What kind? Did I want a "living will"? And when I moved the conversation away from sickness (he has decided that I am on death's door. Now I feel like it), he said that if I want to help the social justice team I should chain myself to a fence in central London and contact the press and say that a dying woman is making a stand about the cuts in the NHS. I had to laugh at that...and I finally had enough, said I had to leave. I didn't really want him to decide to help send my on my way...
Well - naffness is everywhere. Actually, that wasn't naff. That was just plain obnoxious and nasty. So I am rethinking whether or not I want to return to the Unitarians. Excuse me if I'm not going to chain myself anywhere. And-I won't know what this mass in my abdomen is until someone decides to cut me open and find out. I think they can do keyhole and remove it. If not, I will consider if I can live with it. I really doubt that it is malignant. Either way, I will deal with the facts when I know the facts.
Did I tell you that Barts Trust has had to sack the CEO, CFO and Chief Medical Officer? If I did, just nod off for a few minutes, because I will chalk that up to CRS.. The facts: Barts has lost 500 million pounds. That is what I said: 500 million pounds. Sterling. How do you lose 500 million pounds in a year? You can't really hide it in your mattress and forget about it, can you? So where did it go?
And what they are now doing is cutting services and cutting staff to try to make up that loss. I am already facing a cut in the amount of immunoglobulin I receive. So it is only a matter of time-according to my nurse, John-before the immunology service is discontinued, and becomes a part of some other hospital. Where? Who knows? Welcome to the NHS. They're Brits. So they're about 18 on the naff scale that runs from 1-10. They're just too stupid to know it.
When this joke of a general election is over and we have either the current moron (Cameron) as Prime Minister or some other moron, I will be able to actually go out and do something besides go to hospital appointments. My professional patient calendar finishes just at the election. So I will have most of the summer to play. I will be so free, I won't know what to do with myself.
Maybe I should get a stash of Lindt chocolate bunnies to go with my stash of Kettle Chips. I might get really fat-but boy, will I ever be happy!! (And I'm not planning on dying just yet. Maybe when I'm 100 and riding down the Pacific Coast Highway on my Harley. What a way to make an exit!).
Monday, 30 March 2015
Confessions of a Boob Inspector
I'm not some kind of weirdo or pervert-truly! Last week I found myself inspecting two sets of boobs. It was a strange and uncomfortable experience-but oh,so valuable!
Tuesday night there was a meeting of women who expressed an interest in breast reconstruction. The aim of this-the first meeting in the North London area, sponsored by the Royal Free Hospital-was to answer any questions and address any doubts that cancer survivors might have about going through with the operation.
There were about ten of us, plus one consultant plastic surgeon and one clinical nurse specialist in plastic surgery. Her name is Rebecca, and, as it turns out, I will be seeing her when I attend the clinic in May. So I was really glad I went to this thing.
The consultant, Dan, said that only about a third of women who have mastectomies go ahead and have the reconstructive surgery afterward. I was apprehensive, anxious, worried about the pain, the surgery-you name it. I'm such a hospital veteran, I've developed a phobia of hospitals, surgery and doctors.And, speaking with some of the women at the meeting, I discovered I wasn't alone.
Dan showed us slides of four operations: three of them were single mastectomies, where the breasts were reconstructed using tissue from the back and/or the abdomen (I won't elaborate. I don't want you to toss your breakfast). The fourth was a double, and the woman had implants. That was the woman I wanted to see.
So all four women went into little rooms off the main clinic, and the rest of us were told that we could go and see the finished product, as it were. We-no kidding, seriously!- became boob inspectors.
I didn't need to see the women who had tissue taken from their back, although I did walk in with another patient to see the woman who had tissue removed from her abdomen. Her surgeon is my surgeon. I needed to see what he could do. And the results were fantastic. This woman was big-and I do mean, big-and she showed us that Steve (my surgeon) reconstructed one breast to be the same size as the other. You couldn't really tell the difference.
I then went to see the woman who had the implants. She said that she had no fat on her back or stomach, so they needed to do implants-and I am in the same situation, except that I will have expanders, and will have saline injected every two weeks until I reach the correct size. Whoopie.
So she went on to say that Steve put some kind of sling underneath both breasts to minimize drooping-and that, to give her a gift, he increased her size from an A cup to a double D. I was amazed by the quality of the work. But if I had him give me a double D, I would never see my feet again. In fact, I would be so topheavy, I would be falling over all the time.
A double D-lucky woman, I guess! And no, I will not go that large. I would look ridiculous.
So three of us left the hospital together, and were laughing about being boob inspectors for the night. And now I am going to go ahead and have the surgery, because I know that Steve does good work, and I needn't worry about having one breast by my knees and the other up by my nose.
This is what I call progress!!
Tuesday night there was a meeting of women who expressed an interest in breast reconstruction. The aim of this-the first meeting in the North London area, sponsored by the Royal Free Hospital-was to answer any questions and address any doubts that cancer survivors might have about going through with the operation.
There were about ten of us, plus one consultant plastic surgeon and one clinical nurse specialist in plastic surgery. Her name is Rebecca, and, as it turns out, I will be seeing her when I attend the clinic in May. So I was really glad I went to this thing.
The consultant, Dan, said that only about a third of women who have mastectomies go ahead and have the reconstructive surgery afterward. I was apprehensive, anxious, worried about the pain, the surgery-you name it. I'm such a hospital veteran, I've developed a phobia of hospitals, surgery and doctors.And, speaking with some of the women at the meeting, I discovered I wasn't alone.
Dan showed us slides of four operations: three of them were single mastectomies, where the breasts were reconstructed using tissue from the back and/or the abdomen (I won't elaborate. I don't want you to toss your breakfast). The fourth was a double, and the woman had implants. That was the woman I wanted to see.
So all four women went into little rooms off the main clinic, and the rest of us were told that we could go and see the finished product, as it were. We-no kidding, seriously!- became boob inspectors.
I didn't need to see the women who had tissue taken from their back, although I did walk in with another patient to see the woman who had tissue removed from her abdomen. Her surgeon is my surgeon. I needed to see what he could do. And the results were fantastic. This woman was big-and I do mean, big-and she showed us that Steve (my surgeon) reconstructed one breast to be the same size as the other. You couldn't really tell the difference.
I then went to see the woman who had the implants. She said that she had no fat on her back or stomach, so they needed to do implants-and I am in the same situation, except that I will have expanders, and will have saline injected every two weeks until I reach the correct size. Whoopie.
So she went on to say that Steve put some kind of sling underneath both breasts to minimize drooping-and that, to give her a gift, he increased her size from an A cup to a double D. I was amazed by the quality of the work. But if I had him give me a double D, I would never see my feet again. In fact, I would be so topheavy, I would be falling over all the time.
A double D-lucky woman, I guess! And no, I will not go that large. I would look ridiculous.
So three of us left the hospital together, and were laughing about being boob inspectors for the night. And now I am going to go ahead and have the surgery, because I know that Steve does good work, and I needn't worry about having one breast by my knees and the other up by my nose.
This is what I call progress!!
Tuesday, 24 March 2015
The definition of insanity
There are so many sayings going around-and this one has been doing the rounds for as long as I can remember. Insanity is defined as doing the same thing in the same way and doing it over and over again, and expecting different results. Yeah, sure. How naff is that? Speaking of naffness, the king of naff sayings has to be "when life hands you lemons, make lemonade". Scuse me? When life hands you lemons, grab the salt, a bottle of tequila, a large glass, and knock yourself out. Screw the lemonade.
Of course, I bring this up for a reason. I don't go for the insanity bit. To me, it's obstinacy. Persistence. Tenacity. Bloody-mindedness. And, possibly, futility. And when I went to Queen Square for my balance physiotherapy assessment nearly two weeks ago, I was given some of the very same exercises I was doing five years ago. Same old, same old. Doing the same thing, etc, etc.
The interesting thing is that I stopped doing these three years ago, thinking that I had come as far as I could-and besides, I was bored rigid. So out went looking up, looking down, looking from side to side, standing on one leg, standing on the other leg...you get the picture. And I have regressed somewhat, because some of these are more difficult than I remember. Try standing on one leg, then the other-then do it with your eyes closed. Then, if and when it is that easy, stand on a wobble board. That is the ultimate aim of Tom, the balance physiotherapist: to have me standing on a wobble board-with my eyes closed. Oh joy. And he is giving me six months of physio- that's it, six months of rehabilitation. I have my next session in six weeks. We then will figure out where to go from there. I asked him to make it tough. He heard me. I would, of course, prefer not to fall off a wobble board and knock myself unconscious...
So I did the physio assessment, I'm doing the exercises, I've been all over the place, seeing all the docs and being a good little patient. Now I have to wait until next Monday for my ultrasound, to finally discover what is causing this lump in my side. I can't stress about it any more-that just makes it hurt more.
I went to AgeUK's joke of a fundraising committee meeting last week. I also had tea with my neighbor, now 79 years old - and I told her that I was doing everything I could to help her, but it didn't seem to do much good. At the meeting - there was a lot of waffling about fundraising, and what people are doing, and why they are going to wait to take action until the new CEO takes over in April. So I, of course, opened my mouth. I so don't like posturing and bullshit. So I said this man is not going to part the Red Sea, you know (already been done), and he is not the Second Coming. What if he is no good??
Well, the acting chairperson just about jumped me. She said that I have no idea how stringent the selection process was, and of course he will be perfect for the job. And I said-perhaps he was great in the interviews, but he could prove to be a damp squib. And everyone is holding on, rather than doing anything that looks like constructive action. I got told off, and for the rest of the meeting nobody would talk to me. When I left, I said goodbye (I may be a "political activist", as they called me, but at least I am a polite one). I was ignored.
Now I feel like just leaving them to it. I don't know if I will receive the minutes, or if I will even be invited to the next meeting. And, frankly, I don't really care. I tried to help them, but they don't want my help. Or my opinion. And it's the same with church. I stand up and tell everyone that saving services for older people is really important (since one day we will-hopefully-all be old), but nobody is interested.
I've had to rethink my commitments - remember I did say a few weeks ago that I should never volunteer for anything! And I have now learned my lesson. Twice.
What is most important at this point in my life is not changing the world, because it is not likely to happen (certainly not the way I have been working at it). What is important is working to improve my balance as much as I can, so I will increase the exercises and keep going to the gym. And what is also important is a lot of attitude adjustment. I had my pity party, my few days (okay, weeks) of doing nothing except wallowing in self pity. But all that accomplished was to set me back. A lot.
And now I am going to walk. A lot. And hope that Firefox won't freeze before I post this. Boy, do I want a bag of Kettle Chips!!
Of course, I bring this up for a reason. I don't go for the insanity bit. To me, it's obstinacy. Persistence. Tenacity. Bloody-mindedness. And, possibly, futility. And when I went to Queen Square for my balance physiotherapy assessment nearly two weeks ago, I was given some of the very same exercises I was doing five years ago. Same old, same old. Doing the same thing, etc, etc.
The interesting thing is that I stopped doing these three years ago, thinking that I had come as far as I could-and besides, I was bored rigid. So out went looking up, looking down, looking from side to side, standing on one leg, standing on the other leg...you get the picture. And I have regressed somewhat, because some of these are more difficult than I remember. Try standing on one leg, then the other-then do it with your eyes closed. Then, if and when it is that easy, stand on a wobble board. That is the ultimate aim of Tom, the balance physiotherapist: to have me standing on a wobble board-with my eyes closed. Oh joy. And he is giving me six months of physio- that's it, six months of rehabilitation. I have my next session in six weeks. We then will figure out where to go from there. I asked him to make it tough. He heard me. I would, of course, prefer not to fall off a wobble board and knock myself unconscious...
So I did the physio assessment, I'm doing the exercises, I've been all over the place, seeing all the docs and being a good little patient. Now I have to wait until next Monday for my ultrasound, to finally discover what is causing this lump in my side. I can't stress about it any more-that just makes it hurt more.
I went to AgeUK's joke of a fundraising committee meeting last week. I also had tea with my neighbor, now 79 years old - and I told her that I was doing everything I could to help her, but it didn't seem to do much good. At the meeting - there was a lot of waffling about fundraising, and what people are doing, and why they are going to wait to take action until the new CEO takes over in April. So I, of course, opened my mouth. I so don't like posturing and bullshit. So I said this man is not going to part the Red Sea, you know (already been done), and he is not the Second Coming. What if he is no good??
Well, the acting chairperson just about jumped me. She said that I have no idea how stringent the selection process was, and of course he will be perfect for the job. And I said-perhaps he was great in the interviews, but he could prove to be a damp squib. And everyone is holding on, rather than doing anything that looks like constructive action. I got told off, and for the rest of the meeting nobody would talk to me. When I left, I said goodbye (I may be a "political activist", as they called me, but at least I am a polite one). I was ignored.
Now I feel like just leaving them to it. I don't know if I will receive the minutes, or if I will even be invited to the next meeting. And, frankly, I don't really care. I tried to help them, but they don't want my help. Or my opinion. And it's the same with church. I stand up and tell everyone that saving services for older people is really important (since one day we will-hopefully-all be old), but nobody is interested.
I've had to rethink my commitments - remember I did say a few weeks ago that I should never volunteer for anything! And I have now learned my lesson. Twice.
What is most important at this point in my life is not changing the world, because it is not likely to happen (certainly not the way I have been working at it). What is important is working to improve my balance as much as I can, so I will increase the exercises and keep going to the gym. And what is also important is a lot of attitude adjustment. I had my pity party, my few days (okay, weeks) of doing nothing except wallowing in self pity. But all that accomplished was to set me back. A lot.
And now I am going to walk. A lot. And hope that Firefox won't freeze before I post this. Boy, do I want a bag of Kettle Chips!!
Thursday, 12 March 2015
Munchkins rock
I wrote a long post this morning-and then Firefox froze, and deleted everything. I couldn't even save it. Was I swearing, or what? Well-perhaps it turns out to be a good thing, because I was getting long winded. You would be bored.
I've spent a few days just thinking about my day in bed-and I decided that I must have been seriously depressed, even though I thought I was handling things pretty well. So-I decided to have a good close look at what was going on. I thought-the longer I spend in bed, the less chance I have of my brain making new neural pathways. If I don't challenge it (constantly) by doing things that make me dizzy-and doing them over and over and over again-my brain will just figure that it doesn't have to do anything, and will have a nap. And-I cannot spend too much time in bed, because I need to move around as much as possible to make sure my chest is clear. Too much sedentary activity means I can develop chest infections more easily. The chest thing is a result of being born with a defective immune system; the balance? That is thanks to Bart's Hospital. I need to accept it, live with it, and just never give up. And sometimes it gets me down.
I made an appointment for a training session at the gym-first time since cancer surgery, I think. I went along on Tuesday, and my trainer (Tony) worked out a new program for me. I went again today. I'm going to work my way up to four days a week if I can-my backside is heading toward the floor, so I need to take action. I felt quite proud of myself-and very, very sore!! But for me that is one answer: get active, get moving, do something, stop lying around feeling sorry for myself. That just gets boring, and accomplishes nothing.
I also went to Wood Green. Now, going to Wood Green (it's about four miles from my house) is like dropping yourself into a huge, cosmic-sized vat of stinking, noxious shit. It's filled with people who wouldn't be out of place as extras in The Walking Dead-and trying to negotiate from one part to another means avoiding the a**holes and dodging the d***heads. I did clean that up; I'm being polite. Don't get used to it-it's a one-off.
So why do I go when I know beforehand that anyone with crutches, or walking sticks, or obvious mobility challenges are at risk of being shoved into oncoming traffic? Well, a couple of reasons. Wood Green has two cinemas: one is shabby, the other isn't so bad. But I still start to itch, and when I get home I throw my clothes into the washing machine (on boil), and throw myself into the shower until I closely resemble a giant prune. I can't help wondering how far those people's bugs can jump. But I like to go to movies, and I finally can do so without too much dizziness afterward-and Wood Green has the closest cinemas. Let's face it: I'm lazy.
Wood Green also has small branches of the larger chain stores, so that is a bonus; it also has a Turkish restaurant that has recognizable food (ish), and my friend and I have been going there for a couple of years-and never suffered from food poisoning. My criteria for a restaurant: decent food and no e-coli.
I was just walking down the road, minding my own business, using ducking people as a vestibular rehab exercise-and there it was across the road: Dunkin' Donuts. It is THE Dunkin' Donuts. I remember it from my university days. My friends and I would all pile into my roommate's VW Beetle (she called it "vintage", we called it a clapped out old banger that sounded like a bag of hammers). Off we went to get really good coffee, and my friends bought jam doughnuts, while I bought a dozen donut holes (known as "munchkins"). They lasted for two meals. College food meant we survived on pizza, coffee and Dunkin' Donuts. I'm still amazed I didn't end up weighing 350 pounds, with ulcers from too much coffee and diabetes as well.
I did love those munchkins. It reached a point where my friends nicknamed me "munchkin"- I was the shortest of everyone, and standing in a group I used to feel like I was standing in a crater. And every time I went home I looked for a Dunkin'-such a creature of habit. And junk food.
Did I go and check it out? Not yet. Another week or so at the gym and I will reward myself. Of course, it might be horrible. Brits are known for making coffee that can double as paint stripper-so I might be really, really sorry. And munchkins? According to Dunkin's website (I did my homework-it is the real deal in crappy old Wood Green), they still make donut holes.
The coffee? I'll reserve judgment until I try it. And the munchkins? They still do them with cinnamon. Whether they will taste as good is anyone's guess. But I will take my safety in my hands and go. And why not? Ah, munchkins. All those calories. All that sugar. All that saturated fat...yummy!!!
I've spent a few days just thinking about my day in bed-and I decided that I must have been seriously depressed, even though I thought I was handling things pretty well. So-I decided to have a good close look at what was going on. I thought-the longer I spend in bed, the less chance I have of my brain making new neural pathways. If I don't challenge it (constantly) by doing things that make me dizzy-and doing them over and over and over again-my brain will just figure that it doesn't have to do anything, and will have a nap. And-I cannot spend too much time in bed, because I need to move around as much as possible to make sure my chest is clear. Too much sedentary activity means I can develop chest infections more easily. The chest thing is a result of being born with a defective immune system; the balance? That is thanks to Bart's Hospital. I need to accept it, live with it, and just never give up. And sometimes it gets me down.
I made an appointment for a training session at the gym-first time since cancer surgery, I think. I went along on Tuesday, and my trainer (Tony) worked out a new program for me. I went again today. I'm going to work my way up to four days a week if I can-my backside is heading toward the floor, so I need to take action. I felt quite proud of myself-and very, very sore!! But for me that is one answer: get active, get moving, do something, stop lying around feeling sorry for myself. That just gets boring, and accomplishes nothing.
I also went to Wood Green. Now, going to Wood Green (it's about four miles from my house) is like dropping yourself into a huge, cosmic-sized vat of stinking, noxious shit. It's filled with people who wouldn't be out of place as extras in The Walking Dead-and trying to negotiate from one part to another means avoiding the a**holes and dodging the d***heads. I did clean that up; I'm being polite. Don't get used to it-it's a one-off.
So why do I go when I know beforehand that anyone with crutches, or walking sticks, or obvious mobility challenges are at risk of being shoved into oncoming traffic? Well, a couple of reasons. Wood Green has two cinemas: one is shabby, the other isn't so bad. But I still start to itch, and when I get home I throw my clothes into the washing machine (on boil), and throw myself into the shower until I closely resemble a giant prune. I can't help wondering how far those people's bugs can jump. But I like to go to movies, and I finally can do so without too much dizziness afterward-and Wood Green has the closest cinemas. Let's face it: I'm lazy.
Wood Green also has small branches of the larger chain stores, so that is a bonus; it also has a Turkish restaurant that has recognizable food (ish), and my friend and I have been going there for a couple of years-and never suffered from food poisoning. My criteria for a restaurant: decent food and no e-coli.
I was just walking down the road, minding my own business, using ducking people as a vestibular rehab exercise-and there it was across the road: Dunkin' Donuts. It is THE Dunkin' Donuts. I remember it from my university days. My friends and I would all pile into my roommate's VW Beetle (she called it "vintage", we called it a clapped out old banger that sounded like a bag of hammers). Off we went to get really good coffee, and my friends bought jam doughnuts, while I bought a dozen donut holes (known as "munchkins"). They lasted for two meals. College food meant we survived on pizza, coffee and Dunkin' Donuts. I'm still amazed I didn't end up weighing 350 pounds, with ulcers from too much coffee and diabetes as well.
I did love those munchkins. It reached a point where my friends nicknamed me "munchkin"- I was the shortest of everyone, and standing in a group I used to feel like I was standing in a crater. And every time I went home I looked for a Dunkin'-such a creature of habit. And junk food.
Did I go and check it out? Not yet. Another week or so at the gym and I will reward myself. Of course, it might be horrible. Brits are known for making coffee that can double as paint stripper-so I might be really, really sorry. And munchkins? According to Dunkin's website (I did my homework-it is the real deal in crappy old Wood Green), they still make donut holes.
The coffee? I'll reserve judgment until I try it. And the munchkins? They still do them with cinnamon. Whether they will taste as good is anyone's guess. But I will take my safety in my hands and go. And why not? Ah, munchkins. All those calories. All that sugar. All that saturated fat...yummy!!!
Friday, 6 March 2015
The road to Hell and all that jazz
Yes, I guess the road to Hell really is paved with good intentions.
I was going to happily tell you that the kitchen is more or less finished-Richard, the handyman, put up the rest of the shelves, and although Mulalley's work is absolute crap (after nearly 12 months, the work should be good enough for a magazine cover. As if!), nothing has fallen off the walls. So far, so good.
I went along to the gastro consultant on Monday-Sean wasn't in clinic, so Philip, another specialist who has been there forever, examined me. He is ordering an ultrasound-as soon as it can be arranged. He doesn't know what is behind the pain-but he was very reassuring. The lump is a mystery lump. Trust me to get the weirdest stuff imaginable! At least it's entertaining-well, not for me, but for some.
I also went along to a meeting of AgeUK. By now I have realized that I made a really big mistake-HUGE, in fact-by volunteering to do something to help my 78 year old friend keep the services she's going to lose in six months' time. AgeUK's fundraising group seems to be filled with old fossils who really can't -or won't- get that they need to do more than just sit around and "brainstorm". I hope I never get that set in my ways, that intransigent, when I get to their age. In fact, I hope I get to their age!! And I hope I never need the services that are going to be discontinued.
I've learned the hard way-I always seem to learn the hard way!!- that my mother's advice was very sound: never volunteer for anything. It's really annoying and frustrating to see people who persist in standing in their own way because they refuse to move into the 21st century. Well, duh!!
I start balance physiotherapy at Queen Square next week. I haven't been to the gym since the cancer surgery, so that will be very interesting (and probably painful). But this is a good thing: it gets me out of the house, and it makes me accountable to someone else. I need that accountability. Why? Well...
Yesterday I did something I have never done: I got up early, did what I had to do, and went back to bed. Until 1pm. I never do that, I am always up at the crack of 5am. I have been one of those irritating people who gets up really early and is ready to get out and do whatever. It's not so great for the workmates who limp into work at 9am and don't want to talk to anyone until the seventh cup of coffee. But I really didn't want to get up. I forced myself, and then I forced myself to get outside and walk for 45 minutes. It was a good thing, because I could feel myself slipping back into the very dizzy mode. If I don't get up and out every day - religiously- I'm not working at training my brain to find more balance. Simple: no work, no improvement. Scary.
Today I am okay. I thought yesterday that I was suffering from depression-why else would I be so unwilling to get out of bed until the afternoon? Perhaps it was depression, perhaps it was due to the fact that I have had very little sleep since this pain began three weeks ago. Whatever. Today I have begun to bounce back.
I'm beginning to avoid all people who are negative and who sap my energy by constantly complaining. I call them "energy vampires"-and I have to admit I have been there, and have done it myself. I sometimes still whinge-but I try to balance it with something positive. I will still fire pot-shots, though. It's justified. And it's fun. It keeps me amused. And it keeps me motivated.
There is a general election looming, and all the candidates are making promises they have no intention of keeping. I'm amazed at the stupidity of people around me, people who actually believe what they are being promised. Believe me when I say that the pot-shots will increase over the next two months-for your amusement as much as for my own. Reminds me of the Presidential elections: all the total bullshit but with a lot less money spent.
So that is it for now. I'm off to walk. And I'm off to Starbuck's. I hope someone recognizes this absolutely shameless and unsolicited plug for their coffee!!
I was going to happily tell you that the kitchen is more or less finished-Richard, the handyman, put up the rest of the shelves, and although Mulalley's work is absolute crap (after nearly 12 months, the work should be good enough for a magazine cover. As if!), nothing has fallen off the walls. So far, so good.
I went along to the gastro consultant on Monday-Sean wasn't in clinic, so Philip, another specialist who has been there forever, examined me. He is ordering an ultrasound-as soon as it can be arranged. He doesn't know what is behind the pain-but he was very reassuring. The lump is a mystery lump. Trust me to get the weirdest stuff imaginable! At least it's entertaining-well, not for me, but for some.
I also went along to a meeting of AgeUK. By now I have realized that I made a really big mistake-HUGE, in fact-by volunteering to do something to help my 78 year old friend keep the services she's going to lose in six months' time. AgeUK's fundraising group seems to be filled with old fossils who really can't -or won't- get that they need to do more than just sit around and "brainstorm". I hope I never get that set in my ways, that intransigent, when I get to their age. In fact, I hope I get to their age!! And I hope I never need the services that are going to be discontinued.
I've learned the hard way-I always seem to learn the hard way!!- that my mother's advice was very sound: never volunteer for anything. It's really annoying and frustrating to see people who persist in standing in their own way because they refuse to move into the 21st century. Well, duh!!
I start balance physiotherapy at Queen Square next week. I haven't been to the gym since the cancer surgery, so that will be very interesting (and probably painful). But this is a good thing: it gets me out of the house, and it makes me accountable to someone else. I need that accountability. Why? Well...
Yesterday I did something I have never done: I got up early, did what I had to do, and went back to bed. Until 1pm. I never do that, I am always up at the crack of 5am. I have been one of those irritating people who gets up really early and is ready to get out and do whatever. It's not so great for the workmates who limp into work at 9am and don't want to talk to anyone until the seventh cup of coffee. But I really didn't want to get up. I forced myself, and then I forced myself to get outside and walk for 45 minutes. It was a good thing, because I could feel myself slipping back into the very dizzy mode. If I don't get up and out every day - religiously- I'm not working at training my brain to find more balance. Simple: no work, no improvement. Scary.
Today I am okay. I thought yesterday that I was suffering from depression-why else would I be so unwilling to get out of bed until the afternoon? Perhaps it was depression, perhaps it was due to the fact that I have had very little sleep since this pain began three weeks ago. Whatever. Today I have begun to bounce back.
I'm beginning to avoid all people who are negative and who sap my energy by constantly complaining. I call them "energy vampires"-and I have to admit I have been there, and have done it myself. I sometimes still whinge-but I try to balance it with something positive. I will still fire pot-shots, though. It's justified. And it's fun. It keeps me amused. And it keeps me motivated.
There is a general election looming, and all the candidates are making promises they have no intention of keeping. I'm amazed at the stupidity of people around me, people who actually believe what they are being promised. Believe me when I say that the pot-shots will increase over the next two months-for your amusement as much as for my own. Reminds me of the Presidential elections: all the total bullshit but with a lot less money spent.
So that is it for now. I'm off to walk. And I'm off to Starbuck's. I hope someone recognizes this absolutely shameless and unsolicited plug for their coffee!!
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