When Polly Gets Flu

Polly has had flu. Now whether this was the infamous Swine flu or your common or garden flu flu we are not sure. In fact no one is sure, not the NHS helpline, our doctor or indeed, the several other people who have suffered similarly.

Now I love Polly. She is wonderful in so many ways I do not have time to list them all. She (and by extrapolation the children) is absolutely the best thing ever to have happened to me. She is kind, clever, caring and funny. But she is rubbish at being sick. Firstly she believes she is completely indispensable to the running of the universe and that the whole of creation will fall apart if she takes any time off. If she is enforced to go to bed for a while she gets annoyed if the world manages to continue orbiting the sun without her personal assistance and guidance. If, however, the universe somehow manages to struggle on without her, she gets incredibly annoyed if it doesn't tidy the living room in exactly the way she would have done.

Polly has to feel really ill before she relinquishes control of the cosmos. On this occasion she was ill enough to go to bed during the day which is something she begrudges deeply because she 'should be doing other things'. 'Doing other things' means doing all the things that mummies do, children's entertainers do, clown doctors do and rulers of the universe do.

Polly being ill is nothing compared to Polly feeling a little bit better. Polly very reluctantly cancelled a gig at the Royal Marsden but only because flu, cancer, chemotherapy and sick children are a volatile combination. However, Polly feeling a little bit better essentially means Polly catching up with all the things she feels she hasn't done as well as continuing to do all the things she would normally be doing and perhaps a few other things in case anyone suspects her of idleness. Lesser mortals, such as myself, are left wallowing in her wake as she bakes cakes for cub fund-raisers, manages my sisters house restoration, entertains at 4 year-old boys parties, makes Christmas cards and oversees the middle-east peace process. Suddenly she will complain of being tired and look at me as if it is entirely my fault.

At night, my usually delightful bedtime companion becomes an irritable, tetchy, scratchy sleepless nightmare. I cannot move, breathe or mumble sweet nothings without bringing about the kind of reaction that is usually a precursor to all out war. Every creek, every variation in light, every child's nightmare, is my fault. Will no one let her sleep? Don't I realise that she is sick?

The problem for Polly, and no doubt mothers everywhere, is that just because she is ill does not mean that life stops to compensate and allow her time to catch up. I do my best to help make things run smoothly but honestly, is it too much to ask that we don't run out of proper coffee? I've had to drink instant. Yes, when Polly is sick we all suffer. Thank God it's only woman flu.

Until next time.

You Swine

The school holidays are under way. Traditionally in our household one or other or both of our children instantly become sick a few seconds after the final bell rings and spend the first week of the holidays dosed up on Calpol and Ibuprofen. It is as if their little bodies struggle through the final weeks of sports days, class assemblies and dressing up days - this year a circus theme. Matty and Sam went as strong-man and elephant trainer respectively – and then, when the excitement is over, they wilt and cough and sneeze and descend into puddles of sweat and puking misery. This year however both boys seem fit and healthy, if a little tired and scratchy.

Obviously this is good news, doubly so because of the lurking threat of Swine flu. It is a relief to know that H1N1 (the post code for Walls, incidentally) is typically a mild variant of the influenza virus, and only a danger to those with underlying health issues. Of course, being someone with the odd underlying health issue I have to refrain from poking the television with a stick every time some smug government spokesperson assures the country that Britain leads the world in pandemic readiness. I'm glad we do lead the world but when we are told “So-and-so died of complications arising from Swine flu BUT they had underlying health issues,” I am not, unlike the vast majority, greatly reassured.

I refuse to cower in self-imposed isolation but I would appreciate it if you are feeling under the weather that you stay (say 15 metres) away from me. At least until the much vaunted Swine flu vaccine is available. Meanwhile, I'll be clutching my batch of Tamiflu close to my chest

Wee Or Walk

Sam, as was previously mentioned in the last post, has been diagnosed with a urinary infection and put on a course of antibiotics. I'm glad to report that he is much better. However, at the time of the diagnosis, when he felt quite ill, he gave his condition some consideration.

“Not being able to walk,” he told his mother, with a nod towards me, “is this bad.” He held up his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. He then increased the gap between digits by at least double. “A urinary infection is this bad.”

To be fair, I can't walk and at times I've had urinary tract infections. I think I agree with Sam.

Tomorrow I'm off to Kings Hospital to see a neurologist who specialises in neuro-muscular conditions. I'm expecting nothing less than a cure.

The Elephant In The Room

There's an elephant in my living room. Not a metaphorical 'let's not talk about something' type one, but an almost life size, somewhat dominating one end of the room, type one. Polly is having a party on Saturday to celebrate her 40^th birthday and has decided on an Indian theme. “We need an elephant,” she told me. “Knock yourself out,” I said.

I woke up this morning to find a fairly realistic head of Elephas maximus indicus hanging from a bookcase. Polly says that all she needs to do now is make the body. I don't think she's joking.

Sam is still off school. The poor child hasn't made it through a night without being sick since last Saturday. He's been absolutely fine during the last few days, desperate to eat and eager for entertainment. Every few minutes he asks plaintively when Matty will be coming home. The doctor says simply, “'there's a lot of it going around.” Right now Sam's sitting down to a supper of dry crackers.

A Skeleton Walks Into A Bar

Life proceeds as normal. Last night the BiPap ventilator started bleeping again. This is the replacement BiPap remember. The previous one set off its alarm 269 times in one night. This one didn't reach those giddy heights but it was enough to ruin the night. So now I have a replacement replacement machine.

Sam is sick. Typically, after a couple of weeks of school, he has been struck down with the lurgy. The poor kid can't hold anything down and has spent the last few days moping about being miserable, alternating between queasy and starving hungry. Poor Polly has had yet more disturbed nights.

As mentioned yesterday, I have installed what we blogging geeks call a widget. If you look at the top right of this page you'll see “I Read This Blog”. Do please join in and sign up.

And finally, Matty is very keen on this joke at the moment.

A skeleton walks into a bar and asks for a drink.”Would you like anything else with that, sir?” asked the barman. “Yes please,” replies the skeleton. “A mop.”

A Series Of Unfortunate Events

I enjoy writing this blog, it keeps me entertained and apparently one or two of you as well. It does, however, present me with a problem. How much detail should I go into when discussing the ups and downs of my disability? Of the hundreds of you who will read this I only know in the real world a handful of you. The vast majority of you will only ever know me through this blog and the miracle of cyberspace and the picture I paint of myself is the one you are stuck with. My sunny nature, sweet disposition and fabulous good looks are something you have to take on trust. Unfortunately (for me) some of you really do know me. You may be one of my family, taking the occasional peek to check I'm not libelling you, or may be an ancient and decrepit friend from childhood who with rhumy eyes seek desperately for glimpses of lost youth and the hope of an immortality of sorts by mention on these electronic pages. (See you soon guys.) Equally you may be someone from my youth, with hopefully fond memories of teenage dalliance or sweet college days who read this blog out of affection and to provoke remembrance of when we were young, carefree and with the future laid out before us with it's tangle of paths not taken. Or you are someone I meet at the school gate, drink coffee with and go out with to the cinema or the occasional quiz night. The question is: how much do I want you to know? And equally importantly: how much do you want to know?

As the more astute among you will have realised I've been going through a difficult time recently. One of the reasons I started this blogging business was because back in April I realised that the FSH Muscular Dystrophy that affects me was starting one of its periodic stages of decline. Slings and hoists have been introduced into my life, afternoon sessions on the BiPap are now necessary, uninterrupted nights sleep are a thing of the past. But these things, though wearing, are bareable and in some ways even improve the quality of life. There are other aspects that are just plain miserable though, with no redeeming properties whatsoever.

Yesterday was the straw that broke the dromedaries spine. I'll keep the details vague, but it involved bathrooms and no time for hoists, humiliation and misery. It was the culmination of a series of horrible occurrences that pushed both Polly and me to the brink. At 3.15pm we called the doctor and at 6.10pm Dr Toosy arrived for a house call. There is no magic bullet but I have the feeling that a ball has started rolling down a hill of badly mixed metaphors and I have no idea where it will come to rest. Something needs to happen because if it doesn't I don't where I'll end up. In some ways it's a relief that things have come to a head. There is a kind of peace that comes with admitting you can't carry on as before, even though you have no clear idea what you can do about it. All I can suggest is that you keep reading and I keep writing. Wish me luck.

The Wheelchair Goes West

I awoke this morning feeling so much better that I wondered if I'd just been making afuss these last few days. Even when I sat up the resulting coughing fit was relatively mild and I was able to transfer to the wheelchair before needing a nebuliser and the Cough Assist machine. Offering up a prayer of thanks for the inventors of the antibiotics and steroids I've been taking I settled down for my first cup of coffee of the day and to watch a glorious day for the British Olympic team. Just for a while we can feel like a proper sporting nation. My temperature is a bit up and down in line with my consumption of Paracetamol and I'm tiring very quickly but essentially I'm better. So how did the situation come about?

We went on holiday to Wales. To be more precise we went on holiday to Pembrokeshire in the far south west of the country, to stay in a holiday house my parents bought back in the late 1970s at Freshwater East. The house is part of a holiday complex and is completely unremarkable but the setting is wonderful. Only a few hundred yards away is a beautiful, unspoiled, child-friendly sandy beach. It is a perfect bucket and spade, paddling and body boarding sea-side bay. The holiday village is a collection of some 500 white fronted, virtually identical terraced houses mostly grouped together in cul-de-sacs of 15. Groups of young children roam freely, watched over by, but generally unsupervised by, a host of parental eyes, enjoying a freedom of play rarely enjoyed back home. The children have grown up together, though only meeting up for a couple of weeks a year, they form their alliances and establish pecking orders and fall into patterns of friendship as though they have only been a part for a few weeks. New children come and go as families arrive and depart like a tide. Our boys, as you might imagine, adore the place.

The four of us plus Pam, Polly's mum, and our luggage had been packed into our van Tetris style and had to be driven the 250 miles to Pembrokeshire. Because space was so limited compromises had to be made with the amount of baggage we could take. We took the bare minimum of wet and dry weather clothing and necessary equipment such as the battery charger and BiPap but we left the Nebuliser and Cough Assist behind because I only need them when I'm ill and I hadn't had a cough for months and months. The odds of needing them were remote and the Cough Assist is a bulky piece of kit, about the size of an old style portable television. Space in the van was very limited.

We are blessed with two children who don't get travel sick on long journeys. Ensconced in the back with a stack of comics and a Nintendo DS they happily passed the first stage to Bristol where we had an unscheduled stop at my mum's because we had forgotten the keys to the holiday house and had to pick up the spare set. The boys were thrilled to see Granny and for a chance to run around her garden while Polly, Pam and I enjoyed a hot drink and chat. Afterwards we set off again, in glorious sunshine, and crossed over the Severn Bridge in to Wales. We stopped again at a retail park at Sarn to buy school shoes at the Clarke's outlet store and have something to eat. I bought a jacket from a discount store and Pam said she'd pop in to another shop to buy a sun hat. 30 seconds later the heavens opened and it began to pour with a drenching rain.

Back in the van, we rejoined the M4 and continued west. Then Pam began to cough.

To be continued. . .

Ill

We are back from Wales and I am sick. Miserably sick. Whilst away I contracted a lung infection which despite a visit from a doctor and a visit to A&E failed to properly clear, and in combination with the increased tiredness that inevitably accompanies being away from home has landed me in some difficulty. I spent all day yesterday in bed in the hope that a lot of rest and time on the ventilator would make me feel better. I must have been exhausted because I couldn't even read a page of my book let alone eat anything.

I awoke this morning to the comforting but anxious faces of Kalepo and Godfrey who decided they were out of their depth and called for Polly. As I was sat up the gunk in my lungs that had accumulated over the last 36 hours shifted and it felt as though someone had poured liquid concrete directly into my airways which then promptly began to set. Polly slapped the cough machine mask over my face and there followed a frantic period of assisted coughs until I could suck in enough air to enable me to be hoisted into the wheelchair.

This afternoon our GP made a house call. Dr Toosy has, as you might imagine, plenty of experience in dealing with me over the last eight years and so knows not to mess around with a couple of aspirins and some cough drops. He has prescribed me a vast concoction of antibiotics, steroids and nebulisers that hopefully will do the trick. Lord, I hope so. I'm too tired to be ill.

When I feel a bit better I will regale you with tales of our Welsh odyssey. Until then – Nos da.